Caralissa's Conquest

by Reese Gabriel

  ‘Do not look away from me,’ Senelek ordered, his face inches from hers as he began to play with her sex, manoeuvring the whip handle as though it were his shaft. ‘Tell me now that you will obey.’

  Caralissa looked at him in awe, her earlier fear mingled with a dreaded desire to submit to this hatefully cruel man. ‘I - I will obey,’ she said, her voice weak with desire.

  ‘I will obey, my lord,’ he corrected, administering a slight alteration in the angle of her penetration, enough to make her throw back her head and cry out.

  ‘I - I - will obey, my lord,’ she panted as soon as she regained her power of speech.

  Senelek closed the narrow gap between them so that his lips nearly touched her trembling mouth. ‘With this whip I will own you. Because of what I am going to do to you, you will never again see such a device without becoming heated. You will curse my name again and again because you will yearn to submit to it each and every time, to tear the very clothes from your body and fall at the feet of the man who wields it, begging for him to lash you, to brand you with it, publicly and absolutely.’

  Senelek froze his pumping hand, holding her fast at the brink of her orgasm. Her fists clenching and unclenching uselessly, Caralissa moaned, knowing herself at this moment to be naught but a tied and exhibited slut, begging with her ripe body to be used, to be taken, to be lashed, to be dominated.

  She nearly screamed as he pulled forth the whip handle, leaving her unfulfilled.

  ‘May I whip you now, your majesty?’ he asked with a flourish, his smile full of one-sided mirth.

  Caralissa was in no place to appreciate either humour or irony. ‘Y-yes, my lord,’ she mouthed, not knowing for what she was asking. ‘I beg you to use me as it pleases you.’

  Senelek thrust the whip handle to her lips. ‘Clean yourself from it and I will use it on you.’

  Caralissa parted her lips, inviting the leather shaft to pierce that opening. The leather was musky, mingled as it was with her juices. She did her best to purify it, judiciously swallowing her sweetened spit. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of the degradation, the way he was manipulating her in front of Varik’s men, and yet she could not at this moment separate herself out enough to know how to resist.

  ‘Such an obedient little thing,’ he observed, plucking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, massaging it idly.

  Unable to help herself, feeling her face cloud with shame, she thrust her breasts to him and redoubled her efforts at the whip handle, caressing it in a most blatant manner.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she moaned when he pulled the whip away, denying her.

  ‘Varik is a child,’ he said to her, flicking the whip across her hip so as to awaken her every nerve. ‘I am a man. Now you shall learn the difference.’

  He gave her a few moments to contemplate these ominous words as he strode to a place behind her, within range of her back. Throwing her long hair forward over her shoulder, removing thusly for himself the only obstacle to her flesh, he bared her, from neck to knee. After a couple of light runs down her spine, the whip cords trailing delicately, teasingly, he reared back his arm and struck her.

  Caralissa cried out from the shock, the pain, the sudden burning sensation, not to mention the dramatic change in her status. She, Caralissa, daughter of Lysanis, queen of Orencia, was being whipped.

  Senelek paused to replace her hair, which in her writhing had fallen once more over her back. Caralissa moaned as he touched her, igniting the fire that seared across her flesh and would not go away.

  ‘Your back takes the lash well, majesty, as well as any slave,’ he observed. ‘Would you like the next in the same general vicinity?’

  ‘No,’ she wept frantically. ‘Not there, please.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps your lovely arse cheeks instead?’

  Caralissa voiced her protest, but it came too late as Senelek landed a blow across her straining buttocks. Her cry of pain was audible, she was quite sure, even to the very last ranks.

  ‘Had enough, majesty?’ he asked, his voice smug with condescension.

  ‘Yes, yes, oh please stop,’ she wept, the last of her pride evaporated.

  ‘Very well, no more lashes. For the time being, at any rate.’

  Senelek took her from behind this time, the thick whip handle fitting all too easily into her wet opening. Manipulating her breast with his free hand, and seizing her earlobe with gnawing teeth, he pushed through her flimsy defences working her to a frenzy. In a matter of seconds he broke her open entirely.

  Shuddering against him, bound and beaten, she yielded. Her buttocks straining she thrust herself against the whip, against his hand and against his hips in a final thrust, the last of her energy dissipating till she hung limply, like a rag doll in front of Varik’s troops.

  ‘Now,’ he told her, his voice triumphant as he wiped the stained whip across her belly. ‘We will continue.’

  Caralissa twisted in futility as the whip singed her left side, cruelly striping her hip. Senelek countered quickly with a blow to the right hip, so that she knew not in which direction to attempt to turn her rigidly held body. She knew her motions could do little to ease her predicament, and that they likely served only to titillate her exclusively male audience, and yet she could not bring herself to stay still.

  Senelek was both thorough and unrelenting, his next blow landing across her thighs, blazing a trail across her soft interior. Now it was her legs, and then her breasts, a vicious slice coming just below her nipples. Like a lover, hard and demanding, the leather braids had their way with her, taking from her all she gave and more, much more.

  When at last he stepped back she was a maddening portrait of submissive beauty. Surrendered woman flesh, peaked in its desirability. He let her hang this way, awaiting the final, inevitable surrender.

  ‘Please...’ she croaked, the word dying upon her open lips.

  Seizing his opportunity the wily priest inserted the whip handle back into her mouth, compelling her to take it fully even as he worked her sex with his hand, the fingers contorted into a claw, deceptively gentle and probing.

  Caralissa groaned, biting the whip then sucking it with ferocious passion, arching her back as she did, begging his touch upon her stinging breasts. It was the cold metal of his breastplate she encountered.

  Lewdly, shamelessly, she rubbed her whip-seared chest against him. She was a bitch in heat now, a beaten slut whose legs would spread for any man strong enough to claim her.

  ‘Save your ardour,’ Senelek told her, denying her further pleasure with the removal of his hand. ‘For the captains. Respond to them passionately and you will be spared another round of lashes. Show them disrespect by reacting coldly and you and I shall go at it again. Do we have an understanding?’

  Caralissa nodded numbly. As if she could refuse him anything!

  Senelek continued his iron willed appraisal of her soul. His hard gaze slashed through her, as though it were a second whip. Why was he saying or doing nothing? To be whipped or penetrated would be far preferable to this contest of stares. Any form of force in fact, any action to remove the pretence of her will was what was called for in her mind. He’d conquered her already - why did he not seal his victory? Why was he making her take the initiative, forcing her to declare her status in as shameful a way as possible?

  Agonising seconds dragged by, until inevitably Caralissa lowered her eyes, her gaze falling upon his crotch and finally settling on his feet, on his black boots.

  ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, fathoming what was required. ‘We have an understanding.’

  Senelek’s eyes glowed momentarily brighter. A thin smile crossed his lips. ‘Beg for it, your majesty. Beg for your unworthy body to be used by the Rashal, beg to be the receptacle of Rashal seed.’

  Her head swam as it dawned on her what was happening. Senelek was breaking her will, trying to turn her
into a creature of cringing obedience, like a dog who might be made to lick its master’s hand or lie at his feet, an animal that might be controlled with simple rewards and punishments - the palm of a hand, the blow of a switch or lash. Angrily now, she jerked her head back up, her eyes welling with tears as she sought to convey to him how wrong this was - that she was a person, a free woman with rights to be honoured. To surrender to Varik, the man she loved was one thing, but to be humiliated by this man to whom she owed nothing was a violation of everything sacred.

  Senelek’s jaw tensed. Moving his lips almost imperceptibly he met the challenge, meeting her glare with a look of his own, cunning, infinitely patient, like that of an untamed tiger. She swallowed hard as he conveyed to her in a single heartbeat the unbridled truth: that in him she had found a man who would not be swayed, would not allow himself to be controlled by any woman, least of all a pretty little barbarian plaything who so plainly belonged at his feet.

  Lips trembling, Caralissa conceded, her head dropping of its own accord, her dreams of resistance dissolving once again before the iron will of the high priest, brother of the man whom she adored. ‘I beg to be used by the Rashal,’ she began, a wave of shameful pleasure overtaking her. ‘I beg for my unworthy body to be the receptacle of Rashal seed.’

  Senelek seized her chin between his fingers, forcing her head back. ‘Speak up.’

  Thrice more Caralissa repeated the formula, the third time shouting the words so that a cheer rose from the ranks.

  ‘That’s better,’ he nodded. ‘Now tell me, what are you?’

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye. She knew what he wanted from her now and though she fought it with every fibre of her being she could not hold back the words. ‘I am your slave,’ she told him.

  It was a decisive event, the marking of a permanent change in their relationship. Never again would she look Senelek in the eye, never again would she dare presume herself the man’s equal. Caralissa’s skin flushed crimson as she stood before him, in the fullness of what she had become: his conquered female property.

  ‘Kiss me,’ Senelek commanded, his body firm against her.

  Caralissa’s lips parted obediently. There was nothing Senelek could demand now that she would not give freely. It was not love, but lust, or rather her own stolen passion, wrenched from her and placed upon parade, as enticement to the men, the aforementioned captains who were going to have her and also to those who would merely watch. How she wished her hands were free from above her head so that she might collapse, falling appropriately to Senelek’s feet upon her knees, or better still, upon her belly. Let her be hidden in this way, let her disappear inside his orbit; let her be truly a toy, only a toy.

  Senelek pressed his still sheathed cock against her. ‘Listen closely, Caralissa, to what I am to say,’ he warned. ‘Much depends upon it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, eyes begging for another kiss. ‘Master.’

  ‘You will orgasm for them,’ Senelek instructed, specifying more fully his earlier demand. ‘For each one who has you. You will show them that you are honoured to be had. You will show them that you are tamed, humbled, and appreciative. Within your bonds, you will writhe and show your gratitude for your usage at the hands of true men, at the hands of the Rashal. Consider each cock to be a godhead, which you serve with your miserable flesh.’

  He leaned down to clench her nipple with his teeth. ‘Do not trifle with me or fail me, Queen Caralissa,’ he said when he had taken his fill or her teat. ‘I am not as my brother; your tears will not sway me. You are to me a means to an end, a sacrifice. What is done to you - your plundering, your abject submission shall symbolise your people’s conquest. Give me enough here and now, and they will be spared. Attempt to withhold any scrap of dignity, of your own identity, and I will transfer my wrath to them.’

  Caralissa lunged with her hips. She begged with her body to be taken, by him, by anyone. ‘I am ready,’ she breathed. ‘Let them take me, master.’

  ‘Begin with the First Horde,’ Senelek proclaimed, to some unknown listener or listeners. ‘And work through to the last.’

  The chosen soldiers were not permitted the whip. Nor were they allowed to unbind Caralissa, to reposition her in any way. There sole option, given her placement, was to take her from behind. The first few were content to limit themselves to the more natural hole, spilling themselves prodigiously as they squeezed her breasts, grunting and drooling, their hands clenched painfully on her breasts.

  At first, Caralissa feared she might fail in her need to orgasm with each of them, especially given their utter lack of concern for her pleasure. And yet it was this very disregard, this total contempt for her well-being that proved the most erotic stimulant of all. To be reduced to an object of pleasure, to be a mere body to use and spill into was the most delicious of sensations, one that created in her a savage flood of submissive juicing. The men seemed almost amazed, as though they’d never experienced such before. Even in her bonded state, the marks of Senelek’s whip fresh upon her skin, she was a free offering unto them, a fully cooperative vessel, as if she were their own mate or at very least a hired prostitute.

  Although in truth, not even a whore would betray herself to abuse, begging for kisses, rubbing herself heatedly and wildly at their slightest touches. She’d no idea it could feel so sweet! There was a rhythm, it seemed, and she was nearly lulled into a routine when she heard, somewhere between the eighth and ninth man, a question quite novel to the proceedings.

  ‘Are we permitted the use of the narrower channel?’ she heard a new man say, even as the old one was finishing noisily, his sweat dripping down her back, stinging the lacerations.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the chief priest, his voice discretely unemotional. ‘You may use the slut as you wish.’

  Caralissa nearly forgot to come as she heard the words. At the last second, their implications still ringing in her ears, she gave the man the orgasm due him.

  The new man grunted his thanks to Senelek as he positioned himself behind the hapless queen. By his voice he was a big man, and his ham-like hands upon her hips only confirmed the matter. Caralissa was not a large girl, and it took him several huge thrusts, with frequent rests between, during which she hung there, her partially filled rectum throbbing.

  There seemed to be no time limit, as he was allowed to bury himself at leisure. She occupied herself looking for Varik, and then when she could not find him, imagining among the faces she saw which ones might make the best lovers. Or rather, masters, for who would have her now as anything but the slave she was?

  In the end the presence of the man’s shaft inside her tight and tender bottom was less invasive than the smell of him, the feel of his hairy chest on her whip-bitten back. Worse still, he was speaking to her as well, or perhaps to his gods, coaxing them to aid in his ploughing of her captive body. The thrusts grew heavier and faster and a line of drool rained upon her shoulders, ebbing from his fetid mouth as he readied himself. Her body shook with his, cascading towards climax. Her untouched womb burning, she yielded herself, shuddering and crumpling under the assault. The flow of his seed went deep, up into that opening so unsuited by nature for the function.

  The man’s ejaculation extended for what felt like forever, until finally he began to affect his withdrawal. This too took several stages, his shaft having been nearly fused to her tunnel. Caralissa gasped audibly as she was vacated, the man’s seed dribbling out behind the retreating organ.

  She’d barely recovered when she heard Senelek call for the next man to come and to be quick about it, thus indicating that the use of her must not be allowed to falter in any way. And so it went, on and on. The men presenting themselves in all shapes and sizes. Small and large, some hard and fast pumping, others slower, their breath issuing in terse contractions. Some sought only to make nether contact, others allowed their hands to linger upon her, straying over her belly, gripping her ac
hing breasts, clutching her undulating hips. Not one, though, was denied the fruit of her surrender. She came for each, under penalty of Senelek’s whip. No doubt the priest would be pleased at his exercise of power, and yet the truth was, it was Varik to whom she yielded, Varik to whom she gave her every thought.

  She squirmed, accustoming herself to a new man. Where was he? She had yet to see him, nor could she even imagine where he might be. Was he practicing with swords again? Meditating in his tent, cross-legged as she’d seen him do between sessions of lovemaking, the tiny image of the raven god held between his outstretched fingers as he uttered the ancient chants of the Rashal? These were for her, moments of great tenderness, instances when she’d seen into his soul. Pretending to be asleep, lying in whatever position of ravishment he’d left her, she’d watched, wondering at his infinitely serious yet strangely playful expressions.

  It made her jealous of that raven, and of the divinity behind it that so held his rapture. For a man with no use for gods, she thought, he’d seemed strangely pietistic. Ironically, it was a look of devotion she’d seen neither on Senelek’s face nor those of his men. Their passion was of quite a different order, their god, pain and suffering. Most particularly that of suffering, captive females. It was the whip that Senelek adored, not the raven. And who was to say that the whip was not the supreme power in the heavens? Could even the sweet goddess endure its sting - more to the point would she not, having been once bitten, come to crave it again and again, to beg for it upon her knees, or even on her belly? Could there be a place even in heaven for masters and slaves?

  Now there was a thought most blasphemous and wonderful! Could that lovely, too-sweet-to-be-named female Orencian deity, the one so often depicted with red hair like hers, yearn even in her immortal soul to yield to the raven or the dragon or perhaps the monster gods of the Forest of Night? Did they conspire for her possession, manipulating events and working towards some final end in which she would be brought before them to be humbled? Would she then dance for them, under the rain of golden cords, unbreakable, swift as lightning? Would thunder be crashed upon her back, like the blow of a whip? Would she be knelt and mounted by the beasts of the stars, her silent tears falling forth as prodigiously as the drenching rains, the birth flood of spring?