Princess Slave

by Carolyn Faulkner

  * * *

  But, especially at first, Avette was too surprised to have much of a reaction at all, even anger seemed beyond her.

  This was hardly how she'd envisioned her first kiss, having been forced rather than gently coerced into it, his mouth taking hers aggressively rather than the sweet, soft pecks she'd imagined would entice her into thoroughly enjoying it.

  Instead, the entire bare length of her was being flattened uncomfortably up against him, his broad, muscular chest easily revealed by the largely open leather jerkin flattening her breasts, those impudent nipples dragged roughly over the wiry hair they found there as he slanted his mouth across hers, forcing her to yield to him in this as surely as she had earlier in the day.

  Avette hadn't counted on the insidious heat that rose within her as his tongue wheedled its way past her lips to boldly explore her mouth, making it flash through her mind that she wished she could truly surrender to him, and then, to add insult to injury, finding it nearly impossible not to kiss him back.

  At the realization of just how dangerous this man was to her, she did the only thing she felt she could do.

  She bit him. And it was no delicate nibble, either. She sank her teeth into his tongue and held on with everything she had until he reached a hand up between them and grabbed a nipple with his thumb and the side of his first finger. Twisting, pinching and pulling cruelly, all at the same time, tugging her delicate flesh away from her body as if he intended to rip it off her right then and there.

  She hadn't had much experience with pain in her life, certainly never in that area of her body. It was so unexpected, so barbaric, and so excruciatingly painful that her mouth went slack, and she let go of him solely in order to bellow her displeasure at him.

  Cupping his hand to his face and seeing his own blood on his palm had Stohsz incensed as he turned to her. One look at his thunderous face, and Avette knew beyond a shadow of doubt, that her time on this planet had just become severely limited.

  She took a step away from him, but his ever-present hold on her golden bracelets brought her up short. She expected him to reach for his sword and chop off her head. At the very least, she expected him to beat her to her knees.

  She knew she had but another few seconds of life, if that. Few people who had attacked a Kohnzi in any way lived to tell the tale.

  But before she could work out what might be the best thing to do, he surprised her, by throwing her back onto his horse, after not having given her a chance to relieve herself at all. Securing her wrists and ankles again, with one big difference that she noticed immediately when he swung up behind her. When his hand inevitably reached out to claim her rear end, it was his right hand. The one with which he held a sword. The one with which he had so expertly wielded the implement of her surrender before all and sundry.

  He had positioned her just perfectly such that he could punish her as they were riding.

  And punish her he did. As every coppery swallow reminded him of her treachery, his leather-clad palm fell in a relentless rhythm that continued for the entire rest of that day's trip. When he dismounted at a tiny cabin, deep within an old growth forest, and literally dragged her roughly down from the saddle, she collapsed at his feet, unable to support her own weight, and screaming in agony when her naked bottom collided with the stones and twigs of the forest floor.

  Stohsz had no sympathy for her whatsoever. She'd made her bed.

  And soon enough she was going to be lying in his.

  He herded her into the one room cabin that was little more than a shack. Its small bed – although surprisingly long enough for someone his size, but without much room for anyone else – and large fireplace took up most of the inside. There was a tiny rough-hewn chair and table in the corner, and that was it.

  It looked to her like a place her father's gamekeeper might have used as shelter if he had ended up staying out later than he'd intended while tracking a particularly elusive boar or deer.

  Surely he didn't intend for them to stay here...

  Avette moved as little as possible in consideration of the condition of her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, which he had decorated at least as liberally as what had once been the milk-white hillocks of her behind, but it seemed that everywhere she tried to be, she was in the behemoth's way. There just wasn't room for the two of them to be in the cabin at the same time.

  Finally, he pointed to the rough rope bed with its burlap covering and wool blanket. "Sit," he commanded.

  "I have to void," she spilled out, willing to say pretty much anything to avoid the agony of having to put her tender flesh against what passed for a bed. Not that it was a lie; she did have to go.

  He disappeared for a few seconds outside, returning with a pot, which he put in the only unoccupied corner of the room. But when she stepped towards it, he grabbed her arm roughly and swatted her so hard with his free hands that he drove her onto her tiptoes. "You forget yourself, scairn. You must ask permission."

  As a full-throated cry at yet another layer of agony added to flesh already seared beyond measure died slowly in her throat, Avette managed to use the exact verbiage he expected, but her growl made it considerably less than subservient and even less of a plea. "Please, sir, may I void."

  In a flash, the pot disappeared beneath the bed. "Until you can learn to ask in a more respectful fashion, no, you may not."

  It had been a long day, and she needed to use whatever facility he was going to provide, however crude. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite manage the obsequious tone he was demanding, and after several abysmal attempts, he told her that, if she asked again incorrectly, he would thrash her before she would be allowed to ask.

  Then he lifted her off her feet and dropped her onto the bed in one smooth – abominably painful – motion.

  Chapter Two

  Avette howled shamefully as her inflamed rear connected with the rough burlap of the crude bed, the primitive fabric aggravating the numerous, agonizing reminders of her new status. The prince didn't give her the chance to get her bearings before he was atop her, abrading those still swollen nipples against the leather of his vest as she did her best to squirm away from him, to no avail. She beat away at his chest with her hands, long, slim fingers laced together to make them more of a blunt weapon, hoping to cause some harm to him – any harm at all.

  But she might as well have been trying to stem the tide with a teaspoon. Her pesky hands were caught and hauled above her head by virtue of the slight chain between them, causing her to stop dead, her mouth slightly open, as if she'd only just realized that she was stretched out nude beneath him, in one of the most inherently vulnerable positions a woman could assume with a man.

  And he was not just a man; he was her owner, by her own admission. According to Kohnzi law, she knew, there were no limits as to what he could do to her. If he killed her outright, no one would even notice.

  Well, they might notice in her case because of who she had been, and she tried to remember that would probably stop him from outright murdering her.

  Probably.

  But with a Kohnzi, nothing was sure except that they would fight to the death to keep what was theirs – and yours. And if they won – which was a foregone conclusion as they were the fiercest warriors in the known lands – what was yours was theirs, too, by way of penalty for riling them.

  She watched as he produced a key to the cuffs she was wearing. Surprise – and not a little fear – crossed her face as she watched him bend over her – not to free her, but instead to arrange them so that they were interlaced with the ropes of the bedding, so that her wrists were held in place without occupying one of his hands.

  Stohsz smile slightly, although to Avette it looked more like an aggressive baring of his teeth. He would need all of his limbs and every wit he ever had a claim to around a minx like her. His tongue was still quite painful where he would have sworn she had taken a chunk out of it. But he had to admit to a grudging respect for a female
who – in her position – decided to attack rather than retreat.

  * * *

  That was an act that was worthy of a Kohnzi male, and he wasn't quite sure whether that was a good thing.

  Not that it was something he intended to encourage in his scairn. He reached beneath them to grip her bottom with both hands, feeling her try to arch up and away from his grasp only to press herself even more intimately against him. There would be no escape for her. He was now, and would always be, her only choice from this day forward. She might run, in fact, he would bet that she would do so, or at least attempt to, at least once, but she could never hide. A Kohnzi didn't relinquish that which was his to anyone or anything. He would find her or die trying.

  Still squeezing her painfully with one hand, Stohsz wormed his free hand between them to unbutton his pants, cursing the finer ones his father had forced him to wear for the auspicious occasion. His usual garb had a simple fly that overlapped, and he would already have been inside her by now. He was so hard now he felt as if he was an untried boy again, unable and unwilling to control himself enough to last more than fifteen seconds in a position like this with a girl.

  Although he hadn't been that boy for more than a decade now, he was amazed – and a little embarrassed – to realize that he didn't feel he could be certain he'd last much longer than it would take to deflower her. So, rather than indulging himself in her, to prove to her that he was master of her body by bringing her to pleasure against her will, he knew he was going to have no choice but to take her this first time more brutishly than he might, without the ability to savor her sexual surrender.

  He wasn't sure what it was about this woman, but he knew he wasn't at all happy that she – a slave – could reduce him to such a shameful low. A Kohnzi warrior was always in control of himself, and, since his father had grown older and infirm, he was the fiercest warrior in the tribe.

  And he had been all too right about how far she had driven him from his usual rock hard resolve. When he thrust himself up inside her, without any preamble at all, she was dry and unwelcoming – not that he noticed at first. Five inglorious pumps within her later and he cried out against her neck, his face buried in all that glorious hair, that still-blue hair whose color mocked him when he was finally able to open his eyes.

  He rolled off her, the bed so small that he was unable to get very far from her, not that he wanted to. He arranged himself on his side, looking down at her, one big platter of a hand on her lower belly, finally noticing that every strand of those gorgeous locks was now a much deeper shade of cerulean blue, heralding to all and sundry that she was no longer a virgin.

  * * *

  Despite the provocation – the spanking in front of everyone she knew and everyone she was supposed to rule over, having to debase herself in front of him and name herself as a slave, the punishment he had meted out during their journey here and now, even with this humiliating assault on her dignity – Avette had managed not to cry. It hadn't been easy, but she'd done it. She was rather proud of herself for it.

  And when he appeared to be done with her for the moment, she asked softly, "Sir, may I please void?"

  "Look me in the eye and ask again."

  She did exactly as she was told, and he got up, released her from the bed if not the bonds themselves, reaching beneath the bed to grab the bowl and placed it in the middle of the tiny room.

  Avette looked from the dirty bowl to him, then back. She was unable to keep the haughty edge out of her tone when she asked, "Am I not to have any privacy to do what I must?"

  With that, the bowl disappeared beneath the bed again.

  But, to her everlasting shame, Avette knew she was physically unable to hold it any longer. She felt as if she would burst if she had to delay a second longer, and she didn't want to soil their bed. The trousseau that the women of the kingdom had lovingly sewn for her was not a gift fit for a scairn, and it had been left behind at her father's palace, with all of her other possessions. She would have to take great care of the only garments she had.

  Mortified, she dropped to her knees in front of him, pressing her forehead to his toe. "Please, I'm sorry. I have to go. Please, Sir, may I have the bowl back?"

  Because she begged so prettily, he told her, not wanting her to get the idea that he would ever capitulate easily, he replaced the bowl where it had been and watched her every movement as she squatted above it. Beyond that, he truly had no interest in waking up in a wet bed. But that didn't mean he was going to make it easy on her.

  But the sheer humiliation of her position worked against her as her body refused to cooperate for a long moment, regardless of her great need.

  And he didn't help matters by saying, "I'm not going to wait forever, Avette. You need to learn that I do not dance attendance on you."

  When she was finally able to let go, it was this, of all things, that had tears flooding wordlessly down her cheeks to splash onto her breasts. She was looking everywhere and anywhere but at him, whether it was because she was relieving herself or because he was watching her do so, he didn't know.

  But he didn't like it.

  "Look at me while you do that, scairn. It is only by my grace that you may."

  She met his eyes, but he had the strangest feeling that she wasn't really seeing him, regardless. Her eyes, which he had noted upon meeting her were a vivid blue that complimented her hair, were now a stark chocolate brown.

  When she was finished, he surprised her by producing a skin of water and a cloth. Avette expected that he would hand them to her so that she could clean herself, but instead, dampened cloth in hand, he stepped behind her and ordered almost casually, "Bend over."

  As surprising as her tears were at having to pee in front of him, so, too, was her attempt at escape. Her only advantage was that she was facing the door only a few feet away. Even so, success was highly unlikely, considering she had nowhere to run – to say nothing of being bound and naked, to boot.

  The idea of exposing herself to him in such a degrading manner as he was demanding, however, was so mortifying to her that none of that registered with Avette. She wanted to be anywhere that her tormentor wasn't, and so, without thought as to the inevitable and unenviable consequences, she made it to the door and even out it – due solely to the element of surprise – only to be immediately engulfed by the dark, dense forest, tripping and nearly falling with every step.

  If it hadn't been for the close proximity of numerous tall trees, she would have ended up flat on her face in seconds.

  But as she clung to one of them, trying to slow her breathing and remain still in order not to betray her position, he came up behind her, pressing her delicate front into the craggy bark and using his body to keep hers in place as he leaned his considerable weight against her.

  "Naughty, naughty, naughty," he chided, tsking at her as if she was a recalcitrant child rather than a princess who would have eventually become queen to his king of their two realms.

  Not willing to give up the fight quite yet, Avette tried to ignore how her breasts were being painfully flattened and bruised, and instead, kicked back and out at him, landing at least one or two solid blows that only succeeded in jarring her to the bone. It was like kicking a stone wall.

  And he was chuckling at her efforts, leaning forward to brush her hair way from her ear to whisper, "There's the little warrior. I love it when you fight me. It's just what I want, not that you'll ever win against me." The amusement in his voice belied the cruelty of his hands as they pressed hard on her upper back, grinding the coarse bark against her breasts as he ruthlessly wielded a short, sharp belt like implement against her flanks and the backs of her thighs, scoring them again and again over the layers of her previous punishments. "But mark my words, scairn, if you should manage to escape me, I will unseat the great god, Raal, to find you, and you won't like the consequences one bit."

  Every stroke had her unable to control the urge to jump away, further aiding his efforts to score her breasts wit
hout having touched them, letting nature do its worst with only a little help from each of them.

  Eventually, though, he tucked whatever it was he had been striking her with away. He grabbed her hips and brought them back up against him, causing her to have to drag her breasts down the craggy tree trunk. She could feel him pressing something long and stiff against her, flexing his hips to stroke it against her. She had exhausted herself trying to escape, despite the fact that every movement was torturous, yet hadn't managed to budge an inch, while he molested her at will, lifting her a bit and insinuating his legs between hers, forcing hers so wide apart that her hips hurt, rendering her lower body completely ineffective as a weapon. Not that it had been much of a help even beforehand, she'd discovered.

  She had a moment of false hope when she felt him release one wrist, but it was only to secure it again so that she was hugging the tree to which she was bound like a lover.

  As he held her wide apart, those gloved fingers began to rudely root around her privates, poking here, pressing there, all while she remained helplessly trapped between nature itself and her equally immovable prince, unable to stem the tide of whatever it was that he had decided to do to her.

  This one moment, even more so than having to pee in front of him, brought home the reality of her situation. She was different from other Tonyeh women in that she was more aggressive and had acquired a few of the skills that, until then, only the men had known, such as riding astride and using a crossbow. But she was no seasoned warrior, as the man behind her was. More than that, she lacked his physical size and strength.

  And even if she did manage to escape him – which she was of half a mind to suggest to him was much more his fault than hers until she thought better of it – where would she go? She was too well-known in either kingdom, and until she was able to extricate herself from these lands, any good – or bad – citizen who saw her was duty bound to report her to the authorities. She would be back in his gentle grasp within less than a day of having left him.