by Anne Rice
“Yes, madam,” she sobbed, horrified by the ragged and gasping sound of her own voice.
The Queen had apparently laid the paddle down and was now kneading her sore flesh. “You’re right. Her skin is simply gorgeous. For fair skin it is remarkable.”
“She’s known for it,” said Alexi. “But think now, Majesty, what is it you really want to do with her? Do you want to punish her more, break her down, or is there something else you prefer?”
The paddle was picked up again and this time the blows came down on her thighs. The Queen was displaying amazing strength. The stinging blows came in a flurry, and Blanche realized she was now sobbing softly, and with greater control. Not that the worst was over. Not by any means, but she had fallen through some barrier suddenly and felt prostrate in her pain. It was the new queen of Bellavalten who was punishing her and she had no idea whether she was pleasing the Queen or not.
Out of her mouth came the helpless cry, “My queen.”
“Yes, kitten, what is it?” came the Queen’s voice.
“I want to please you so,” sobbed Blanche. Her backside and thighs were on fire. But the Queen still spanked her, moving back again to her bottom and lifting each side as she spanked the lower curve right where her bottom met her thigh. Blanche shook with her sobs. She had never been any more helpless with anyone, any more faint and weightless and without will. Her sex was wet and pulsing with desire, and her breasts were filled with tingling warmth as if it were moving up from her loins all through her, like a hot fluid more certainly part of her than her own blood.
Suddenly the Queen pulled her up by her shoulders and slammed her down on her knees. She took Blanche’s wrists in both hands, and forced Blanche around to kneel right in front of her. “Look into my eyes,” she said.
Slowly Blanche looked up as if into a blinding light.
“Your Majesty,” she whispered imploringly.
Her breasts throbbed, and her sex was swelling as if it were something that could burst. The fluids ran down her inner thighs.
“Lift her up, Alexi,” said the Queen.
Blanche was wrenched to her feet.
“Now present your hips to me,” said the Queen. “That’s it, thrust them towards me.”
Blanche struggled to obey, careful to keep her legs apart. Always one was expected to keep one’s legs apart. Her calves were trembling as she stood on the balls of her feet, and her thighs and bottom throbbed with pain, a delicious hot pulsing pain that was worse now than when she was being spanked.
The Queen was examining her sex, seeing the flood of moisture, the wetness as that dreadful Galen always called it, and she felt the Queen’s thumbs suddenly inside her vagina.
Blanche gasped. She could not hold back. She would die before she let the pleasure crest, die before she disappointed the Queen and her beloved Tristan, but she couldn’t hold back.
The orgasm broke loose and she felt her empty vagina gaping hungrily and desperately as the pleasure flooded up through her and the blood throbbed in her face.
They knew it, they saw it, they could not conceivably think it was anything but her spending and spending and her choking sobs became low hoarse cries.
“Take her,” said the Queen.
Prince Alexi turned her.
“On the bed.”
She was forced across the room and then down on the jeweled red coverlet. A thousand prickly jewels or bits of gold bit into her sore flesh. Prince Alexi pushed her up on the bed, and mounted her, without removing his clothes, only lifting his tunic to reveal his organ hard and ready, and then it plunged into her, into the hopeless aching emptiness, and she felt herself flooded with relief, riding yet another magnificent wave, spending yet again.
Her mouth was open and the cries were ripped out of her.
“Hush, little one,” he said. “Hush.” His lips covered hers and he took her cries into himself as he drove his cock harder and harder into her.
Unable to stop herself she wrapped her naked legs around him and rode up off the coverlet with him only to be wondrously slammed down once more.
She wanted to cry, Yes, and yes, and maybe she did. She didn’t know. He sucked the breath out of her, his dark hair hanging down onto her face.
Finally, he came, and she came again with him, and they shuddered together until it was finally over, and she felt him rising, felt his soft wondrous weight taken away from her, and for a moment she felt cold, not because the room was cold, but because it was quiet and he was gone.
When she opened her eyes she saw the Queen standing at the window by the fireplace looking out into the night.
“Oh, my queen,” Blanche cried, unable to restrain herself. And without thinking, she rushed off the bed and fell on her knees at the Queen’s side. “I did so want to please you, truly I did. Oh, please forgive me if I’ve displeased you.”
“Quiet, Blanche, quiet,” said Alexi in a crooning voice as he approached. She felt his hands on her shoulders, gentle but firm. “Your Majesty, no one has ever been able to teach this little girl to restrain herself and her outbursts of devotion.”
The Queen turned and looked down. The light of the fire was behind her so her face was dark, and the light played in her golden hair.
Blanched sobbed in defeat, her hands not behind her neck as they should have been but covering her face.
“You did please me, darling,” said the Queen in the warmest sweetest voice.
Blanche felt the Queen’s fingers gently moving her own hands away from her face. And now her face was lifted and she knew that the shadowy figure was smiling at her though she could hardly see the features of her face.
“You have pleased me very much, precious Blanche,” she said. “I shall always love you, love you especially for this night. Now stand and come into my arms.”
Blanche could not quite believe this was happening because her heart was filled with happiness such as she had seldom known. For Tristan to embrace her in this manner gave her the greatest pleasure, but this was the Queen, the new queen.
She embraced the Queen as tightly as she could, holding back nothing, covering the Queen’s face in kisses as the Queen kissed her, her breasts pressing against the Queen’s breasts, her pubis pressing against the Queen’s skirts. The Queen’s hands cupped Blanche’s head, then moved to her shoulders, and her breasts, twisting her nipples, and the kisses became ever more ardent, ever more desperate. The Queen was moaning. Blanche felt the Queen’s hand on her hand, pressing Blanche’s fingers between her legs though the heavy fabric of the Queen’s skirts protected her. Suddenly, madly, Blanche lifted the Queen’s skirts and fell on her knees kissing the Queen’s wet pubic lips, dipping her tongue into the Queen’s hot salty vagina. She could hear the Queen sighing. Blanche clutched at the Queen’s naked bottom and worked her with all her might, her tongue plunging ever deeper until the Queen came, came with loud sweet moans that caused the floodgates in Blanche to break again as she pressed against the Queen’s legs.
Drowsily, contentedly, ready for whatever punishment she deserved for her boldness, Blanche felt herself being gently pushed away, petted, caressed, yet pushed away, and she sank down at the Queen’s feet.
It seemed a long time passed. She crouched with her eyes shut tight, waiting.
“You will get better at it,” said Prince Alexi to the Queen. “You will get better at everything.”
“I know,” said the Queen under her breath. “But if only, if only I could understand . . .”
“All will be revealed in time,” said Alexi with even-greater gentleness. “You’ve only just begun.”
Blanche felt the Queen’s hands on her head. “Come, dearest, come into my arms again,” said the Queen.
Blanche rose at once, and held the Queen as tightly as she dared. Oh, sweet, sweet beyond any caresses she’d ever enjoyed, ever known, this. Sweet and intoxicati
ng.
“Oh, don’t worry, Blanche,” said the Queen in her ear. “Don’t bother with our words. I am new to taking command in this way, in this secret and erotic way.” The Queen’s thumbs fondled Blanche’s cheeks. “I do so love you, darling. You have been the best of teachers. Now kiss me again with all your heart.”
i
A full nine months had passed since King Laurent and Queen Beauty had been crowned at Bellavalten, and all the world, it seemed, knew of their proclamations. How many eager princes, princesses, lords and ladies, and eager would-be slaves had journeyed to Bellavalten—from all over the European lands, and from the lands to the south, and from those to the east, and from those to the north, and from the Hungarian lands and the Russian lands, and from the lands of exotic climes—part history and part legend?
Those seeking slaves in my own kingdom had met with many highborn applicants, and those proud and beautiful peasants who had dreams of being accepted.
One day, wrapped in a hooded cloak, I had stood about in the shadows and watched the eager neophytes as they hovered outside the inn where the emissaries of Bellavalten were receiving, wondering what fair hair and forms were concealed by the heavy garments that so well concealed face and rank. “Beauty’s Kingdom,” that is how they referred commonly to Bellavalten. “Beauty’s Kingdom.” And the legend of the Sleeping Beauty and her new realm was the talk of the land.
I would have left that very day for Beauty’s Kingdom, had it been possible.
But perhaps the many tasks that had delayed me had been a blessing. For as I reached Bellavalten now riding ahead of the small caravan of wagons and mounted servants that had accompanied me, I realized that Laurent and Beauty, my old and beloved friends, had made great progress in reviving the kingdom and I would see it—not in its early days of resurrection and inevitable confusion—but now in full bloom, so to speak, as every innkeeper I’d encountered in the last fortnight had told me.
Whatever the case, I’d had little choice but to delay my return.
My older brother, the King now for some twenty years, was not eager to see me pursue my dreams, but he had finally accepted it murmuring that he’d always been against my being sent to Bellavalten in the first place. He’d served in Bellavalten long before me, it was true, but only for a year, whereas I had been there many years, when one included my time in the sultanate. Yes, it had been a strange and ecstatic pleasure, all that, he said, and much the fashion in those days. Yet why did I wish to go back? I couldn’t explain. He had tasks for me to complete before I was allowed to depart—visits to make, bequests to bestow, cousins to be received, and attendance at conferences that went on forever—and I set out to satisfy him without argument, which had always been my way.
You might say I’d learned patience during my time as a naked slave. But in truth, I was patient before I ever knew what it meant to be the pampered plaything of alluring ladies and lords. I was not by nature controlled or disciplined, no. That I had learned over time.
Finally, my brother had given me his blessing, endowed me with abundant gifts and gold, and after a final week of weepy and riotous banqueting and endless farewells, I’d at last set out, confident that I might come back home if I didn’t find the new realm to my liking.
Of course I brought my trusted servant Fabien with me—the only being in this world who had ever been allowed to see me naked since I’d left the far-off realm of my old friend Lexius, former steward to the Sultan and slave to Her Late Majesty Queen Eleanor.
There wasn’t a chance that I wouldn’t find the new realm to my liking!
Two long letters from King Laurent had come to me within the first month of the kingdom’s rebirth, filled with amazing warmth and friendly words, just as if he were speaking to me, though no doubt some scribe had been taking his dictation, and I could almost hear and see my old friend whom I had known so briefly but with such pleasure. These letters had been brimming with his enthusiasm for all the new innovations and expansion of the old kingdom, and they had set my blood to simmering at once.
And I had received a letter as well from my beloved Prince Alexi, whose brother’s kingdom bordered on our own, and he too had said only momentous things about Bellavalten where he now resided. He had also confided that very likely Lexius would be returning—Lexius whom I knew and loved above all others from the time of my service.
To think that I might see Lexius again was quite an inducement. But even if Lexius never did make the journey from his far-off home in India, I was bound to return to Bellavalten as soon as I heard of the new regime.
That Princesses Rosalynd and Elena had also written to me was an added inducement. They had served with me for years in the sultanate, and they too had returned to Bellavalten. In sum, I could not have turned away from all this.
It was a long and arduous journey, but of course the closer we came to the fabled kingdom, the warmer and sweeter the weather until we were in the blessed land itself. My last night at the nearby inn was torment. But I took the time to bathe, and be shaved, and to put on fresh garments for the morning ride to the kingdom’s gates. In fact, I spent a long time with my mirror as I reflected on what might soon occur.
I’d been looking all too much in the mirror since news of the “new kingdom” had come.
When you are a naked pleasure slave, it seems to me, you learn not to be vain, but to reside completely in your physical being. You become aware of your gifts in a way that is lasting, and perhaps never quite understandable to those who have never been pleasure slaves. You hear yourself described, spoken about, unendingly by your masters and mistresses, and grooms. You learn what they notice, what interests them, what they value, what they like and don’t like, and what ought to be enhanced.
Thick jet-black hair, rather pale blue eyes, a somewhat delicately modeled face, indeed a bit of a long face, and a large frame—these were my endowments in brief—and of course a cock that was easily as big as most others when standing at attention or in repose. But for the kingdom and the sultanate, these features were never the sum total of any slave’s individual charm. The spirit of the slave was paramount—the slave’s grace or polish, the timbre of the slave’s voice and softest moan, and above all the expression on a slave’s face.
I’d been known for hopeless spontaneity, openness, the inability to conceal my feelings or fears, and praised unendingly for appealing eyes.
I couldn’t forget all this when I heard of the revival of Bellavalten. It mattered to me to be accepted in Bellavalten—not merely for sentiment’s sake or because I’d once been a slave there but as a self-possessed and impressive courtier now.
So I had to make a careful and somewhat ruthless assessment of myself before this journey. Was I youthful still in any regard? Was I in my prime? Were there more tiny and delicate lines around my eyes than I cared to see in the glass? And it was useless of course to ask my mistress what she thought, as she would lie to me out of tenderness, and pointless to ask Fabien, as he adored me and was so blind to his own charms. He lacked a vocabulary for assessing beauty. Whatever Fabien gave me daily, he gave through the devotion in his face and doting voice.
Well, on the last night, I made the ruthless assessment once more. My hair was thick as ever and now down to my shoulders, lustrous, still very black, and that was good. Maybe I had kept some of my youthful beauty even if I had grown very tall during my time in the sultanate, and if anything I was fuller of chest now and better muscled than in those early years.
Whatever. Time would reveal the truth that I couldn’t find for certain in any mirror. I wasn’t turning back. I felt comfortable on the final morning. I wore my best dark puce-colored tunic, and trousers, though it was far too warm for them now, and my heavy Russian boots.
From a mile away, as we came out of the mountain pass, I saw the great castle on its cliff above the valley and marveled as I had that very first time so long ago at its immense siz
e. It appeared to have a multitude of towers, and from its many crowded pinnacles and ramparts there streamed red and gold banners furling in the wind.
Before the walls and on either side of the great drawbridge, I saw gaily colored tents, and crowds of people about them, and there was an air of energy and business about the entire multitude milling as far as I could see. The road had been crowded, yes, but I was still surprised at the number of those congregating here. There were campgrounds and other tents off to the right and left near the heavy brooding thickets of oaks.
Fabien drew up beside me on his chestnut mare, anticipating my questions, and all I had to do was gesture for him to explain.
“So many are coming, applying as slaves, or grooms, or simply immigrants eager to live in the kingdom that the halls inside the walls can no longer contain them,” he explained.
Of course he would know because while I’d rested at the various inns along the way, brooding, dreaming, looking in the mirror, and staring out the windows, he’d been gossiping in the kitchens and with the men in the yard.
Fabien was very excited about this venture. I had taken him with me to India when I’d gone there with Lexius, and he had been devoted to me since that time. Brown haired, big boned, with cold dark eyes and an amazing warm voice, he always looked splendid in his velvet livery, and went on to explain excitedly what he’d heard along the road.
“Many are being turned away for obvious reasons, but an amazing number are accepted,” he went on. “Look there. That line. That’s probably all slave postulants. You can tell even from here. Look, the guards are motioning some on, and sending others away. Of course those of royal or noble birth go through the gates. If the guards spot a postulant of exceptional quality, well, they spirit that one right inside.”
Indeed I could see this happening to two lovely young peasant women as we watched, and one very comely boy.