At Charlotte’s left, one slave was trussed up belly down, her feet and hands tied together behind her. A loose end of that rope was attached to a winch above. With the rope pulled taut, the poor slave strained in the awkward pose just as Charlotte strained with her position. At Charlotte’s right, a third cowering slave was bound in the same way that Sir Tristan had ordered her in the hovel. On her back, her hips raised, her legs bent and tucked into her ass. These three were a startling trio of agony. And while they were a curiosity for some minutes of initial examination, they were soon ignored. Those attending this gathering went on to eat the heavy meal laid out before them while the slaves bore their agony and waited in silence.
It was nearly forty-five minutes before the slaves had any relief from their awesome bondage. By that time, any torture would be better than the ones they had endured. Charlotte was the first to find her bonds loosened as three women, all directed by the Mistress Gwnyth, swarmed her. Once eased from her position she was pulled to her feet, Mountbane himself tugging her by the collar.
“I give her to you, my dear woman,” he spoke directly to the haughty Gwnyth, “that you may seek your revenge for the horrors she’s perpetrated on your good name.”
Did any slave have a right to a “good” name, the crowd and Charlotte would wonder? But for the punishment of this slave’s crimes, noblewomen can be made of slaves. In this case, Mountbane gave Tristan’s wife a good deal more than she’d earned. He didn’t give a wit for what she might have suffered for her husband’s infidelity—if she’d suffered at all. Nor was Mountbane inclined to give Gwnyth any real power. For this one night, however, he would give Charlotte to the malevolent bitch, knowing that a scorned woman could likely heap one priceless punishment on a deserving slave.
“She is yours,” he said, as he gestured graciously. At that moment, the two were kin—one in spirit and desire, one in shrewdness and cunning skill.
“Thank you, milord,” the woman replied graciously.
For the occasion, Lady Gwnyth was dressed in britches—a most unusual sight in Ilusia. In black leather, she was a stunning picture of feminine power, from her high-laced boots, slim-fitting trousers, and a vest that hugged her waist and bosom like a cinch. Its deep cleft billowed with the flesh of her breasts, while the garment pinched her waist to the extreme. Each asset in the lady’s small but spectacular package was pronounced to such an amazing degree that there was not an eye that was not fixed on the breathtaking sight. One would wonder where she came on such attire. It was obvious that her normal clothes had hidden her generous endowments. But there was nothing hidden now, and she proved to be a most full-bodied woman.
Adding to the amazing picture, the woman’s tiny hands were clothed in polished leather gloves. Gripping a sleek riding tawse in her fist, she revealed a substance akin to any dominant man’s.
Gwnyth’s black hair was tied from her face, fixed in a bun high atop her head. Her brows appeared to arch more severely than usual, while the deep violet of her eyes looked like the beginnings of a winter storm. Her tiny mouth was painted red, pursed and grim.
“I should just make you stay like this the night,” she spat out as the crop toyed with Charlotte’s exposed pubis. She pushed it at the splayed crotch until she heard the slave gasp, then she ripped the frayed end on the crest of Charlotte’s belly, bearing down gravely. With each strike, her aim descended until she was whipping hard on the slave’s swelling labia. Stopping abruptly, she turned to one of the male attendants, “Raise her, kind sir.”
Two hefty fellows came forward and moved Mountbane’s wife to the top of a three-foot pedestal and bound her to a bar above. All could see her body quiver, and how her thighs were weak with fright and tension. Gwnyth moved closer, pressing her gloved fist to Charlotte’s cunt, and pushing several fingers inside. Working them for several moments, she then withdrew her hand, snarling, “She’s wet. Untie her arms. I want her fresh and relaxed for what she’ll endure from me tonight.”
Removed from bondage, Charlotte could breathe a little easier, though she knew that her night would not be easy. If on the very basest level of her being, she didn’t derive some pleasure from these bizarre rituals, she might be inclined to faint away. But now, Gwnyth was correct, her body did enjoy the crudities. She let her mind go free; easier to let go than fight.
The mistress was a fussy woman. Having worked in the baths for many months training slaves, she’d learned a craft uncommon to most Ilusian females. Her skill had been solely for sport since such things were not required or expected of her. In the process of her labors, however, she’d found that these strange rites with women excited her pussy more than she desired the hardness of a man’s cock. Whether her subjects derived any pleasure from her crude ministrations didn’t matter to her—in fact, she was equally as happy to have them cry for mercy as enjoy the attention. Taking this well-earned wisdom to Lady Charlotte’s punishment gave her an opportunity to show herself in a way that would be most pleasing for a woman who, an Ilusian slave herself, had been otherwise overlooked in Mountbane’s court.
For the next fifteen minutes, while men were working the other two slaves, Gwnyth tied Charlotte’s body with rope, working thick hemp cords in figure eights about the slave’s breasts, torso and groin. Cutting into Charlotte’s skin, the tightly rigged contrivance altered her beauty in a remarkable fashion. Her breasts seemed pulled from her body and proudly vulnerable, with areoles and nipples turning a deep shade of purple in such severe captivity. Below, her labia were pulled wide to leave her bare cunt defenseless and wholly accessible for assault. And from behind, the expert working of the ropes made her ass end nearly as exposed as her front portal.
Finally strung up by the manacles at her wrists, her feet were attached to distant ends of a bar, making the disgraced lady ready for Gwnyth’s revenge. Adjusting her to the appropriate height to suit her needs, the female bitch stepped back scowling happily. After appraising her artwork for several seconds, she then laid into Charlotte’s flesh with the vile end of her tasseled riding crop. The attack came in volleys unleashed with unchecked fury; the extent of her beating going on until the mistress tired of the whipping.
When the woman backed off for several seconds, both slave and mistress could rest; though there was little relaxation for the embattled slave. Charlotte needed to remain vigilant, keeping her mind fixed on the sensations lavished on her body. If she could focus on the whole of it, she could reach that moment of bliss she so treasured at such times. To have that would be Charlotte’s single vindication in the awful ordeal.
Mistress Gwnyth, however, was not handling this punishment in the manner of a master. There would be no extended whipping—no rise and fall, nor ebb and flow, no delightful crest when her sexual desire would find that delicious peak of pheromones and body lust. Gwnyth’s planned torture was a distinctly feminine one—and one, yet, untried in the form she would desire for the Lady Charlotte. Being given such free reign with this shameful wife inspired her genius in ways that set her own body reeling with anticipation.
Having welted the slave’s fair skin and heard her miserable cries, she was now bored with the banality of the act. Moving to her favorite abuse, she centered on the slave’s ripe vagina. Swathing one leather fist in Charlotte’s pussy juices, she slowly eased the whole of her hand into the woman’s opening. As was the rest of her petite form, Gwnyth’s fists were so tiny that without much effort her leather-gloved digits, knuckles and palm slid easily beyond the doorway. The bound slave gasped finding the center of her widened beyond limits she might have at one time placed upon herself. Sensation tore through her in fantastic waves. The thrust and beat of the invading hand made it seem as though she might swallow the whole woman inside her. When she could focus on sensation, she survived; when she focused on the fullness, she felt reconciled with the crudity. But when the Mistress began to tease her from behind, Charlotte began to panic. Gwnyth’s one hand was driven deeply into her cunt, so that her second hand co
uld invade her ass.
“Do it the easy way and relax, or bear down and feel the pain—it doesn’t matter to me, slut,” Gwnyth chided her. “Both of these will fit inside your whorish body and scour you out.”
“Ah, milady, nooooooo!” Charlotte’s cry fell on deaf ears, and on a crowd more interested in seeing this abuse than worrying over the terror it might cause.
Greased and ready with her second hand, Gwnyth began to open the back door, slowly easing first her fingers and then her entire hand up the channel. Inching her way into Charlotte’s interior, the mistress’s body swelled with delight while her pussy grew raw with desire the more she penetrated the slave’s spasming holes.
The crowd about them cheered so their awful roar drowned Charlotte’s pleas for mercy. There was no mercy, there was only holding on. Forcing her body to relax, the defamed wife made her mind let go of the pain. Her muscles began to ease and her sphincter softened; and all the rings of flesh within her relaxed as the two fists began their fucking. The petite femme between her thighs was an adamant tigress with a skill for depravity that was only matched by the peerless mastery of Caius, Tristan and Mountbane himself. Her glee extended all about the room, mesmerizing even the Lord himself as the throng watched fascinated. Even Charlotte’s slave companions in this abuse were attentive to the scene when their masters stopped long enough to enjoy the sight themselves.
“You’re going to cum, harlot,” Gwnyth roared at her like an angry cat.
Charlotte couldn’t speak, but she could answer with her physical reply. So full now… something beyond her own body raged within her, as though she were in the midst of a thunderstorm and there was lightning all around … and hail on her insides … Everything thundered inside to the frenetic beat of Gwnyth’s rhythms.
“Cum, you filthy whore, cum now!” she ordered.
Could it be that Charlotte was inside the woman’s head? Inside her domain and lost to her own? Could it be that she’d heard the command, and knew to obey? That to disobey would cause her grievous consequences? Did she know all that and give up her cum? Or was she simply ready on her own; and taking herself into ecstasy was simply the natural thing to do? Charlotte might ponder these questions some days later when she thought back on the amazing moment. But she had no answers now, save one.
“Cum whore!” Gwnyth spat out a second time.
A second later, in answer to the demand, Charlotte bore down and climaxed… heart racing, body twisting, groin aflame. She came, and came again on Gwnyth’s fists until every bit of pleasured pain had passed, and her harridan mistress finally let her fists snake from the widened cavities.
“I want her on her back face up,” the woman snarled. Her demand was answered as though she were at the helm of this small fiefdom. Two male attendants worked quickly, having the wasted slave as ordered lying on the dais. Charlotte was, in fact, glad for the reprieve from the exhausting physical tortures. Though her torso, breasts and groin were still bound with ropes, the tension of those ropes had loosened during the ordeal. She could now relax her shoulders and ease some of the devastation in her groin.
Still, Charlotte was not yet finished for the night with one task left to perform.
The commotion had died away and her wild orgasm ended, and a hush fell over the room. No one seemed to move. All eyes were focused on the mistress of the night. Gwnyth made them stare at her; something in her haughty manner bid them seek her out. Her cruel strut about the dais, the toss of her head, and the way her red mouth formed its seductive grimace suggested that her devious schemes had not seen their end. In truth, the woman was crawling with her own desire, revealing such anxiety about her physical body that the air was rife with curiosity.
She stalked Charlotte, while the slave stared up at her, eyes transfixed. “You suck cunt, too?” she wondered. Unconsciously, the slave licked her lips, not knowing even then what she was revealing about herself. Pleased, Gwnyth stood over her, a foot on either side of her face, and stared down. “You’ll suck mine now, slave,” she told her. And, in a surprising turn of events, the slave-turned dominating bitch untied several tiny ties that held the two sides of her leather pants together. With these undone, front and back, she bent down crouching over Charlotte’s face, her pants pulled wide apart. With her naked body cleft in full view—pussy and ass rent wide, she gave her final order, “Finish me, whore, and do it well.”
The sour sweet fragrance of femininity wafted into Charlotte’s face as Gwnyth’s pussy descended to the slave’s mouth. As commanded, Charlotte opened her lips and latching on to the swollen clitoris, she began to suck.
Gwnyth moved out of the crouch, to her knees some seconds later, sitting squarely on the slave’s face, so her entire cleft could be vigorously worked.
“Oooo, yess, yes, yes….” the mistress hissed, while her nails clawed at Charlotte’s hair. “Go to it, whore! Make me cum.”
Awed, the silent crowd stood riveted on the scene as one leather-clad beauty with snow-white skin and a raven’s black hair wiggled her sex over her bound blonde slave. They watched the slave’s long tongue work its way inside the hole; and then witnessed how her cheeks sucked in as her mouth slurped Gwnyth’s rich cream. Finally, as the tension inside the mistress/bitch began to expand, the gathered numbers beheld the astonishing vision of these two locked body parts working to a frantic end. The mistress thrashed against her harlot, and then came with a body roar that would shake sleeping giants from their slumber.
Gwnyth sat back on Charlotte’s chest when she was done.
“Does that please you, sire?” she turned to ask Mountbane, as her voice ran with mockery.
“Indeed,” he looked quite pleased. “I never realized you were such an inventive woman. I should have you do this to my wife daily.”
“I’d be only too glad to accommodate you,” she replied.
“I’m sure you would,” he agreed. “Now, come down. I may admire your vitality, kind woman, but I will allow no woman such command in my world.”
Gwnyth pushed to her feet and moved off, still haughtily bearing her beautiful body with a poise no one would see from a woman in Ilusia again—or at least for some time.
“That is too bad, kind sir,” she responded to his comment. “I assure you, you’ll miss a world of pleasure.”
“So be it, then.”
Not one spectator, not even Mountbane moved a muscle until the imperious leather-clad woman had left the room.
“How do you feel now, my bride?” Mountbane addressed his wife as he gazed down at her blank face.
“I am fine, sir,” she replied evenly. And this was the truth. At this moment, she didn’t give a fair farthing what the man said, or did with her. Despite this great degradation, she had her victory, her bliss. He couldn’t take that from her. No man, or mistress, or abuse could devastate her fully. It was in her character to love such surrender.
These were Charlotte’s thoughts at the completion of her trial with Gwnyth. She knew she’d survived the moment well. Even bested by the mistress, she would not be broken. But then, she had not suffered her entire punishment.
She should have been wary. Tuned as she was to her husband’s clever schemes, she should have known that this one evening would not be enough to assuage his rage and dispense with his revenge. But as she recovered from the whip, the fists, and the intense humiliation, she was much too weary to predict the further outcome. And even when it came, its cruelty was not immediately apparent.
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte lay on her pallet in the tower room, letting thoughts of the evening before swim through her mind. Those that were pleasant she allowed to ripen inside her body where they raised her physical heat and brought on crashing climaxes. One orgasm after another, her body seemed insatiable. When she tired of her recollections, she remembered Tristan, finding her pleasure expanding again in a melancholy way as she thought of the lover now lost to her.
Had Mountbane killed him? That would have been his method,
but there was no way to determine his fate. Her best resource was to think of the absent Tristan and let his presence within her bring her pleasure—even though she’d never know the physical joy of him again. As much as she relished her thoughts of him, however, dwelling on Tristan could be a dangerous pastime. One minute her body would leap with joy, and then next, it would come crashing down in frightened tears.
There was so little to live for in her tower room: no flowers and fragrance, no companionship, no Tristan, not hardly a bite of food. There was just the sex, her masturbations and her incessant sexual thoughts.
Two days after the fisting contest, the tower door was opened by one of Mountbane’s many aides. Brusquely pulling her from bed, the boorish fellow led Charlotte from the room and deposited her in Mountbane’s chambers. Her husband was hosting a party of ten nobles—many of them guests from neighboring provinces.
“Ah! There is my fair wife. How nice you look today!” Mountbane exclaimed.
What kind of farce was this? she wondered silently. She must look ghastly, not having bathed in days. Charlotte listened to his mockery with a blank expression.
“You know, my dear, I was just talking to my man, Grusio, here; and the topic of your last exhibition came up. I’d totally forgotten that you were still chained in the tower room. I do apologize.”
She didn’t speak, knowing that anything she said would only be twisted into another taunting jest.
“I wouldn’t think that living in that dank atmosphere would be the best for your health,” the man went on, “especially if we keep forgetting to feed you. But then, what to do with a wife who is so scandalously adulterous?” He waltzed about her nakedness, giving only scant notice to the voluptuous beauty that had so captured his attention in the past. “After corrupting my second in command, making him now worthless to me, how could I trust that you wouldn’t be fornicating with every nobleman’s dick that pleases you?”
The Surrender of Lady Charlotte Page 12