Tristan looked at Charlotte worriedly. “May I suggest an alternative—it has been some time since we used such measures, but perhaps it would suit your grace. She could be taken to the woodland retreat, and there spend the brunt of her penance on the stone dais.”
“Humph. A thought.” Mountbane’s eyes lit malevolently. “And then remain prisoner in the hovel until I feel she’s earned the right to return to my bed. Fine thought, you think?” He looked around at his other nobles.
“This might be a most advantageous circumstance for you both, milord. You have your wife thoroughly chastised, but still removed from the general riffraff in the dungeon, which could be a problem at the moment,” Sir Ellemore reasoned sanely. “With the influx of new slaves, Caius has been quite occupied. Certainly it wouldn’t do to have Mountbane’s wife lost in that confusion.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it would do her well to be so disposed,” he said disdainfully. “But I like Sir Tristan’s suggestion even better,” he turned to the nobleman. “If you will oversee her purgatory, you can have her attended by some of my lessor fellows—break in a few new bucks with her backside and randy snatch. Be sure it’s as uncomfortable as hell—because hell she’ll feel from me if she hasn’t learned to keep her tongue and regard her slavish surrender as law.”
“She’ll be docile as a lamb when she returns, or you can throw me out,” Tristan assured him.
“I suppose the Lady Gwnyth will revolt?” Lord Harrow speculated.
“And if she revolts, she’ll get her punishment ten-fold.” Tristan rejoined
“Perhaps, you should take them both to the hovel?” Ellemore proposed.
“And have them scratching out their eyes—even I, sir, am not interested in handling that row.”
“Ah! Have we lost our wits, my fellows?” Mountbane sighed as he looked at Tristan in wonder, and then the others. “Have those who are the slaves turned into our masters?”
“Not as long as we hold the whips and chains, and there are plenty of fresh and randy cunts to take their places,” Tristan declared. “No, Lord Mountbane, we are still in charge.”
Mountbane nodded respectfully as he watched the man jerk Charlotte to her feet and lead her toward the door. “Will you be in the woods to watch the ravishment?” Tristan asked on the way out.
“No, I won’t. I have other things to keep me occupied.”
Chapter Nine
“It is still raining, sir,” the young man declared as he peered out of the hovel window.
“And it will stop,” Sir Tristan replied calmly as he leaned back in his chair, gulping the rich brew from his silver goblet. “Come here, milady, I fear that too much of a reprieve will make you think we’re soft. Besides,” he snickered, “we want to teach these boys the rudiments of dominating their bitch/slaves. And you are the bitchiest around.”
Charlotte had been huddled in a corner, her naked body covered by a thin blanket. Earlier that day, by orders of Sir Tristan, and in front of his two trainees, she’d been ordered to strip and took the position for inspection while her body was thoroughly examined. The act had been fairly easy, but afterwards, she remained naked, given just the blanket to keep the damp chill of the day away. Now, ordered to the master’s side, she flung it off and made her way to the man’s side on hands and knees. Thankfully, he still had a remarkable power to raise her body heat with just his words of command. She’d have to let her physical passion keep her warm.
“See how she can be so docile?” Tristan noted. “Fine trait. She is one of the best. Only a grand lord would tire of this one. But then, when you can have the fairest, newest, comeliest virgins in the realm, why settle for such a used pussy as hers? Sweet though the flower might be, the petals are by now a bit bruised.”
Bruised! Charlotte fumed. She should take offense! She wondered, were his comments designed to hurt? But she kept her indignation to herself. She’d learned to watch and wait well—and patiently. In this case, she hoped there would be more to the adventure than the punishment outlined in her husband’s chambers the day before. She could only hope.
“You have to treat even the well-trained ones brusquely,” Sir Tristan instructed his young fellows. “And throw down surprises for them to struggle with.” He eyed Charlotte amusedly as she waited in the penitent “third” position—bent over, head to the floor. His eyes lit as a new thought dawned. “Into the bridge, slave,” he ordered.
Charlotte complied immediately turning to her back, bending her knees, tucking her feet to her ankles, while raising her groin high and her arms above her head.
“No,” Tristan inspected the pose critically, “hands down at your feet, so you can grab your ankles in your hands. Bring some rope,” he ordered the initiates.
The youths were as compliant as any good slave in the presence of an experienced master and quickly had his request in hand.
“Tie her hands to her feet,” their instructor ordered them. “We’ll make a stand for my goblet to rest on, and see just how well she manages to balance a full glass.”
She should be beyond such humiliation. Certainly, early on with Mountbane she’d been required to do similar things. But in the present company, Sir Tristan, most notably, there was an element of shame being dehumanized this way. Especially since she found this man one of the most humane nobles in Mountbane’s rule, hopefully, beyond such tactics. Perhaps this was simply for show? Then, too, maybe he was right, and the humiliation would do her good.
Once bound, Charlotte realized that the pose would be grueling, and even more difficult when the pompous Tristan placed his goblet at the apex of her proudly displayed vulva, saying, “Better watch your breath and keep it even, or you’ll spill my liquor. You won’t want to face those consequences.”
Charlotte battled hard to hold the arduous position. Minutes, maybe, would be the limit of her endurance. With practice, she could keep such poses for nearly a half-hour before tiring. Though in recent months these rituals were rarely required of her, unless her husband was being particularly vile; and now, with the added weight of the goblet precariously poised on this most energetic region of her body, she worried that her endurance would fall short of the requirement.
She maintained the pose for some time, closing her eyes and focusing on nothing but her surrender. For a moment, the bliss was sweet. Then the ache began. With the fire in her belly heating up, Sir Tristan intensified the contest, saying commandingly, “Open your eyes.” Her lids popped open wide so she stared into the scoundrel’s face. “You do well with this, slave. In fact, I think you’ll stay this way.” He took the goblet from its position nestled in her pubic curls only so he could take another gulp of liquor. Then he replaced the goblet letting it teeter on Charlotte’s unstable flesh. The fire in her body grew, causing her belly to billow with desire. It took more effort now to keep the table flat; and she was losing ground with each second that passed.
“Ah! Sir, I cannot!” she finally cried in a softly sensuous moan so not to disturb the gentle balance.
“You can’t?” he queried. Such mockery in his expression, reminding her of Mountbane, not the more benevolent master she believed him to be.
Her legs trembled.
“No, sir. Please allow me some reprieve or I might faint.”
“Hummm,” he studied her a minute. “I’m sure you can do better than this, my Lady Charlotte,” he said politely.
“But my thighs and calves are faltering.”
“Don’t argue.”
Her mouth snapped tightly shut and her determination wore on, tattered though it was. Then, just seconds before she might have lost the pose entirely, Sir Tristan swiped the goblet from his table and she collapsed.
“Now did I order that?” he chided. “Bad move, slave.” His voice was filled with disappointment. Charlotte lay still hog-tied, feet and hands still awkwardly bound together behind her. Though there was some ease in her position, her body still ached unreasonably. “Bind her over the board and punish her,” he ordered the
young disciples. “And use her if you like.” As Tristan’s pupils followed his command, he rose from his chair and moved into a tiny alcove behind a screen where he would sleep the night.
After being bound in punishment over a thick wood board, Charlotte was whipped by both men. Afterwards, her ass was taken by one eager prick, and her cunt by the other. Finished with her, she was released from the ropes; they threw a scratchy woolen blanket over her body and she was sent to the corner. This was how she’d spend her night. It would be a restless one until finally, too exhausted to let her body-ache keep her awake, she escaped into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Ten
At dawn, Charlotte was taken from the hovel wearing just her collar, a mask, and a thin robe that fell softly about her feet. The mask was customary for these rites. The villages nearby had been informed that a lady from Mountbane’s castle (her identity would remain a mystery) had been sentenced to “the stations” for a day and night. Delighted by the prospect of seeing such a lady’s torture, there were plenty of eager men waiting long before sunrise to execute her misery. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, and a warm sun would take away the chill. To be “whipped at dawn” by the general masses was the first station of this primitive custom. In a clearing not far from the forest hovel there was a dais of stone rising several feet above the ground. At its side stood a weighty oak with massive branches reaching out in a canopy over the huge granite altar. From one great limb there were ropes dangling down ready to capture a submissive woman’s wrists.
Standing flat-footed under the hanging rope, Charlotte was bound with her arms stretched wide, made ready for the lecherous rabble to dispatch with her first punishment. Six men of well-muscled stock came forward, chosen by the larger lot for their strength and steadiness. Each, in turn, before the leering eyes of a scornful audience, whipped her soundly. Some laid on leather. One used a thick wooden paddle directly on her ass. And the rest used sticks and birches they’d gleaned from the forest. Freshly cut, the sap still ran and tiny buds barbed the surface, enhancing the potential damage.
Would she survive this? Better to have been sent to Caius’ dungeon, she thought. She began to cry. These men were not schooled in the finer arts of flogging women. They could take out their angers, relieve the stress of their sorry lives; and she could do nothing but take the worst of it.
It took some time, but eventually—especially during an exchange of executors—Charlotte found some warmth to relish. The day was cool, her skin was hot; and those contrasts danced inside that unseen place within her form where her carnal sprites happily welcomed such extremes. If she could help it, she would not show her arousal, but enjoy the torment in private.
To the air she protested ungraciously and to the earth she rebelled trying to dance away from the strikes. To the audience she was an offering from the their quixotic ruler; to the tormentors she was their release; and to Sir Tristan, she was a slave being returned to the surrendering side of her nature. Only he, not even his confederates, could see how the struggle passed from her body and a pleasure, known only by slaves in such circumstances, was delivering her into the highlands of certain ecstasy. Even the increased intensity of the punishment did little to make her falter. Though in the end, with her back, breasts and belly swathed with red lines, she’d reached her endurance and collapsed in exhaustion.
In the second station of the ritual, Charlotte was bound in a prostrate position to the flat rock and left to be viewed by a curious crowd of onlookers, who found it delightful recompense seeing a noblewoman so humbled. From the latter edge of dawn until dusk, she remained—spat on, humiliated, chided, jeered and even kicked. (Though her guards were there to shoo away those who would abuse her so, a few would get through.)
Exhaustion increased as the long hours moved slowly on. She had one last ritual to bear before she could rest—perhaps the worst, perhaps the best of the three, the third station in the ceremony.
It had been some time since Charlotte had been the center of a general ravishment, but she knew what it meant. To know that this would be the end of her ordeal almost gave her some satisfaction. At least her loins would realize some sexual gratification.
Freed from her bonds, she was given to the crowd to use. As long as they kept her in the glade, she was theirs to screw as they pleased. Charlotte yielded as the best of noble slaves would yield.
This last rite might have been heaven for a sex-hungry slave had this not been a surly, smelly crowd, with foul breath and dirty hands. To relent took more determination than she imagined. But soon she managed even this repulsive lot. Though they would never know her identity, she was the wife of Mountbane, and that was reason to take pride in how she performed for her lord—even if she was estranged from the vile blackguard.
The night gone, Charlotte was returned to the hovel by Tristan’s initiates and laid on the bed inside the tiny alcove. Her body hurt with a hundred fires and her cunt and ass seemed rent apart. Despite the pain and her great ache, it took but one swig from Sir Tristan’s goblet of liquor to put her fast asleep.
“You can be relieved of your duties tonight,” Tristan informed the two young men as they watched the lady’s peaceful slumber. “I’ll see to her, and you can return the day after tomorrow—late. I doubt she’ll be conscious until then and she’ll be little trouble in this state. There is little to learn from a sleeping slave but what serenity looks like.”
d
Charlotte’s sleep-filled eyes stirred late the next morning—far sooner than anyone would expect. Not until her heavy lids finally opened and she stared into the humble room around her did she remember where she was, or how she’d spent her last day. Spying Sir Tristan eating a plate of food, her stomach instantly turned sour, aching with hunger. The rest of her body was stiff and sore.
“Sir?” she whispered quietly.
“Ah, awake so soon.”
“Soon?” she wondered, looking toward the window. “There’s a midday sun shining through that window.”
“Indeed, it is midday, though your night was a long one and you didn’t sleep until well after midnight.”
“Still. I am awake and very hungry.”
“I’m sure you are. I believe you fasted yesterday.”
“Will you continue to mock me all day long?” she asked, trying to be polite.
“Perhaps. But then I can hardly starve Mountbane’s wife, can I?”
“I doubt he’d care.”
“But then, your death would be on my shoulders, and that I couldn’t bear.”
Sir Tristan scraped some stew from his pot and handed her the plate of food.
“It may not be the best. But forgoing slaves to wait on us, we’ll have to let this satisfy your hunger.”
Charlotte took a bite eager to soothe her empty stomach. “Then we’re alone?”
“We are,” he looked around.
“Even your young cohorts are absent?”
“I sent them away last night, telling them not to return until tomorrow.”
Charlotte smiled with curiosity and ate some more, until her plate was clean and her stomach filled. Staring at her captor like a sheepish adolescent, she blushed with embarrassment now aware of her nakedness and their solitude. Her arousal leapt forward seeking him, though her mind would try to draw back that lust and maintain some poise. Her body had never beat so strongly for any man. Since her upbringing prevented such occurrences, and her marriage was one of accommodation, not such staggering passion, this new feeling seemed terribly strange; and yet, she could identify its source—her heart. She loved this man.
He touched her cheek gently. She would have drawn him to her eagerly with just that little encouragement; but instead, she held on as a good slave should, knowing she had no right to be that forward.
“There has never been as fair a flower in Ilusia as you.” Tristan’s cavernous eyes tore into her.
Charlotte’s blush deepened. “That is not a safe thing to say,” she said.
“And
why not, we’re here alone?” He moved away from her and began to remove his clothes.
Though she’d seen this nobleman naked many times, there was an unspoken intimacy between them as he disrobed in the quiet of their forest shelter. He pulled off his belt and the heavy woolen shirt over his head; then lowered his trousers, stripping everything from his loins leaving Charlotte face to face with his powerful erection.
When he sank into the bed beside her, she opened for him naturally, receiving his body into hers, letting the potent stalk inside her vaginal warmth nestle there contentedly. Any movement made her shudder from the depths, and her belly spasm, grinding against itself as she began to grind into his hips. All her physical aches seemed to vanish as the pumping action of his body increased. Their cries united. Ecstasy was building fast. Her heart poured into his as surely as their sexual juices were flowing into each other. Their arms were locked around each other as though they were in a war with their desires; but they held on and on and on…delivered to another world—a world they’d made. Consumed by this primal act, their hearts expanded with the exuberance that comes with love. Afterwards, they rested while savoring the physical satisfaction.
“You have confused me, milord,” Charlotte said, as she pulled away from Sir Tristan’s face and burrowed her face in his belly as though hiding. She was afraid to look at him. Eye to eye entreaties were dangerous for slaves; and she was still very much a slave.
“What confusion?” he asked as he ran his hand through her long yellow locks. Her hair had not been cut since Mountbane ordered it shaved three years before; and now, it flowed nearly to her ass. Tristan toyed with the silken threads, then gripped them in his fist and gave a firm tug, so he could bring her into his arms. “And why run from me?” he asked.
“Run? I’m still here, sir.”
“But you’re afraid.”
“I should be. This defies my marriage vows and makes you a traitor to your lord.”
The Surrender of Lady Charlotte Page 9