by Parker Grey
I grab the window sill in both hands, then move my other leg over the side. The makeshift rope tightens against my shoulder. I take a deep breath and grab it with one hand just above a thick knot, bracing my knees and feet against the stone wall, knuckles still white as I hold onto the window.
Then I grab the sheets with my other hand and let go, eyes squeezed shut against the possibility that I’m wrong about all this and I’m about to fall to my death.
I don’t fall.
I jerk back unpleasantly, because there’s more give in the rope than I thought there would be, but I don’t fall. It squeezes my shoulder, where the sheets are looped around me, but it holds.
Don’t look down, I tell myself. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
And hurry, you don’t have long.
Eyes glued to the wall, I brace my feet against it, knuckles pure white where I’m clutching the sheets with both hands. I force myself to start walking backward, down the wall, the sheets sliding uncomfortably against my shoulder, abrading the skin there even through my thin shirt.
Don’t look down.
I keep going. It can’t be that much further now, can it? I didn’t think my room was that high up, but every terrifying step feels like ten feet, so now I must be close.
I force myself to stop thinking about it. I force myself to stop thinking anything and just move, ignoring the pain in my hands and in my shoulder.
And then finally, finally, there’s solid stone beneath me. I find the ground with one foot and nearly collapse in a heap with relief, taking a single moment to stand upright, shake out my hands, rest my forehead against the cool stone of the wall and be thankful that I didn’t fall.
But I have to go. My legs feel like rubber, but I force my feet to move, quickly and quietly along the wall, toward the guard post to the north. From what I’ve seen over the last two days that guard looks a little younger, seems a little more easily distracted.
He’s not there. No one is.
I stop, my back to the castle wall, and I try to think but my mind is racing.
I have to get out of here, I have to get to safety, I have to tell someone what happened…
Just go, your chances are slim anyway.
I dart around the corner, acting on instinct, and then skid to a halt instantly.
Someone’s standing there, someone wide and tall and commanding, and in that second, I know I’ve lost. My dramatic escape down the wall was for nothing.
I take a step back only for someone to suddenly grab me by both arms, halting me in place. My heartrate spikes, and I look around wildly, at the two guards on either side of me, at the castle walls rising above.
At the man I nearly ran into, and I feel a bead of sweat make its way down my neck and between my breasts.
“Are you not enjoying your stay with us?” Prince Julian asks.
Chapter Ten
Julian
Isabelle Marchand looks up at me like I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. She’s probably not wrong. I doubt anyone else has ever kept her locked in a room on flimsy evidence or let her nearly escape before catching her.
I know it was risky to let her go out the window. She could have fallen and gotten seriously hurt or killed, but I knew she’d be able to do it.
Belle’s got a fire in her like I’ve never seen in anyone before. She’s got it even now, straining against her captors, her chest heaving as perspiration glides down her perfect white neck, past the opening of her shirt.
“No, I’m not enjoying being kept prisoner,” she snarls.
“Perhaps you’re thinking about this all wrong,” I suggest, my voice coming out low and rough. Just watching her like this is making my cock twitch, making me throb and ache for the day she begs me for it.
“How’s that?” she spits.
“You’re our guest, Belle,” I say lightly. “Of course, now that you’ve tried to reject our hospitality, we might have to keep a closer watch on you.”
Her face goes paler, and for a moment, she stops fighting. I can see that she wants to ask what that means, but she refuses to give me the satisfaction.
That’s fine. She’ll be giving me satisfaction soon enough. For now, I know exactly what I’m going to do.
“You’ll have new quarters from now on,” I say, taking a step forward.
Belle’s chin juts out, the fire in her eyes still kindled. But there’s something else there, too, a mixture of anger and lust that makes me nearly dizzy to think about.
“Are you going to chain me up in the basement?” she asks defiantly.
Not in the basement, I want to say.
“Not at all,” I tell her, letting myself smile.
Her gaze flicks from my good eye to my bad and back.
“You’ll be staying with me in my quarters.”
My quarters are essentially an apartment in the castle: a master bedroom, a parlor, a small kitchen, and a few extra rooms. Not to mention the special room.
She won’t be sleeping in my bedroom, of course. Not yet. She won’t be sleeping with me until she asks for it. Begs, even.
Belle is silent all the way to my quarters, her back stiff as she walks between two guards, in front of me. As she walks I watch the sway of her hips, the way her ass moves back and forth underneath the ugly pants we’ve given her.
And I think about her, on my lap, her clothes on the floor as she straddles me with my hand in her hair. I think about the way she’d soak through my pants with her wetness, the way I could drive her to the brink of orgasm over and over again, denying her until it drives her crazy.
We both enter my quarters, and I shut the heavy wooden door behind us. Suddenly, we’re alone for only the second time ever, but the silence seems complete as she turns to face me.
I lean against the door, hands in my pockets. Just watching to see what she’ll do.
“I’m not sleeping in your bed,” she says at last, her voice quiet, her hands in fists at her sides.
I just chuckle.
“Of course not,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
Belle looks a little relieved.
“You’ve got to earn that privilege,” I say.
She turns bright red, takes a step forward.
“Some privilege,” she says. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Is that why you’re keeping me here, because you get off on keeping girls captive?”
Not exactly, I think.
And not girls.
Only you.
I laugh at her.
“I’m keeping you in the castle because I’m afraid you might try to bring down the lawful monarchy again if you escape,” I say, taking a step closer to her.
Now we’re six inches apart. I can see her pulse beating in her neck, fast and hard.
“And I’m keeping you with me because you’ve already proved me right once when you tried to escape,” I whisper. “Don’t try it again, Belle.”
Her eyes glitter angrily.
“Why on earth would I want to escape a lovely guest experience like this one?” she says, her voice bitter. “Being kept locked up by a madman is a blast, I’m loving every second of this.”
With that, she turns on her heel and stalks away, down a short hallway that leads to the other bedrooms in my chamber.
I let her walk. She can’t escape. She’s already learned that once tonight — even though the doors here are sometimes kept unlocked and the windows don’t have bars, she won’t be able to go free.
“First door on your right,” I call. “It should be to your liking.”
Without another word, she shoves the door open, walks in, slams it behind herself. I hear the lock click and chuckle to myself.
I’ve got the key. Of course I’ve got the key.
I flip off the lights, leaving the main door unlocked — there are guards outside and down the hall, Belle can’t escape and she knows it — and head for my own bedroom. I was still at work when I spotted Belle tying her bedsheets together, so I
shut down my computer, then wash my face, brush my teeth, take off my clothes.
Just as I’m about to get into bed myself, I stop and stare at the book case in my huge bedroom, my eyes lingering on it for a moment.
Not now, I think. Just go to bed, don’t get your hopes up…
But I’m already walking over, totally naked. Cock getting harder with every step I take, unable to stop the thoughts already running through I head. I grab the leather copy of de Sade’s Justine, pull the top back, and hear the satisfying click of the door opening.
I heave the bookshelf away from the wall and feel for the light switch inside the room, though even when I turn it on there isn’t much light available, only from the wall-mounted sconces designed to flicker slightly against the black walls.
Mood lighting.
It’s my favorite room in the castle. The one where I’m completely and utterly in control. The place where my word is command, where no one questions my decisions, my choices, my desires.
I take a step in. The air is a bit chilly, a bit stale, because it’s been ages since I’ve used the place. One black wall is lined with whips, crops, floggers — anything I can imagine that might cause the very best kind of pain.
Facing it on the other wall is a St. Andrew’s cross, an enormous person-sized X with restraints at the top and the bottom, and in the middle are the sex swing, spanking bench, and a huge king-sized bed.
There are restraints on the bed, of course, and the other wall is filled with chains and handcuffs of all sorts, my favorite spreader bar, a small assortment of nipple clamps.
Right above my head there’s a ring suspended from the ceiling, and I reach up, touch it lightly. Try not to think about Belle, cuffed to it, legs spread and blindfolded…
I shake my head. Force myself to stop, leave the black room, switch off the lights. I shut the bookshelf door behind me and slide into my bed, between the silk sheets that warm up almost instantly with my heat.
Before I go to sleep, I wrap my hand around the base of my thick cock one more time, think of Belle bent over the table, her sweet juices running down the inside of her thigh as I stroke her with one thumb. I think of the way she’d moan my name, the way she’d fight each orgasm until she couldn’t any more.
I come quickly and then fall asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Belle
I know I shouldn’t be surprised.
I shouldn’t be surprised that I was caught. I shouldn’t be surprised that the prince has ways of knowing what his prisoners are doing that aren’t obvious.
And I probably shouldn’t be surprised that now I’m staying in his quarters, just a few rooms away from him.
After all, that’s what he said the other day — you are mine.
I want to hate him. I want to rebel against the idea of what he said, but I can’t. Not quite, because when he talks to me, when he orders me around, it sets off vibrations deep in the base of my spine.
It makes the rest of my brain go quiet until there’s nothing but him.
I shut the door behind me, and I almost get in bed still clothed, but at the last moment, I take my shirt off, then the ugly pants they have me wearing.
A thrill hums through my body at the action. At knowing that even though I locked the door behind me, I’m positive that he could come in here at any time he wants, see me totally naked.
I don’t hate that thought, either. Despite myself.
I slide between the dark silk sheets, trying not to think about the way that the cool, soft material feels against my heated skin, or against my exposed nipples.
I try not to think about the way Julian looks at me, with his good eye at least. I try not to think about his tall frame or the way his muscles strain against his military uniform.
And most of all, I try not to think about the things I secretly want him to do to me. The way his voice makes me feel like melting butter, like his control over my body is total and complete.
My hand is already between my legs, and I bite my lip.
I wonder if he’s watching, somehow. I wonder if Julian knows what I’m doing right now, or worse, if he knows I’m doing it thinking about him.
I’m thinking about being on my knees, naked, while he sits in a chair fully clothed. About his voice saying open your mouth as he unzips his trousers, about licking and sucking the swollen head of his thick cock while I look at him for permission.
God, I’m so wet, just thinking about this.
The fantasy speeds up along with my hand. I think about swallowing him until there are tears running down my cheeks, about letting him bend me over and take whatever he wants from me.
I think about his hand in my hair, pressing my face down against—
The wave shatters over me and I come hard, face turned and pressed into the pillow as I gasp through clenched teeth. I’m shaking, and my fingers slow, then finally stop.
I pull them from my panties and roll over in the massive bed, face down in the pillows now.
You have to stop doing that, I tell myself.
You’re his prisoner, and you’re letting all this fuck with your head.
He doesn’t want you. Just stop, Isabelle.
When I get out of bed the next morning, I put the same clothes back on that I was wearing the day before. My bedroom has its own small bathroom, thankfully, so I shower and wash my face quickly before taking a deep breath and heading out to see Julian.
He’s at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and drinking a large cup of tea while reading something on his tablet. News, probably, and he takes his time looking up at me when I enter.
My stomach clenches, the way it does every time he looks at me. Even though I know I’m being a little ridiculous, I can’t help but think of last night, of the wicked fantasies he makes me have.
Finally, he speaks up.
“There’s a package for you in the parlor,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. “And you can call down to the kitchen if you’d like them to prepare you breakfast.”
I clear my throat, not quite sure what to say.
“I thought I was a prisoner,” I say, trying to keep my voice ice-cold.
Julian looks me up and down thoroughly, something hungry and vicious in his eyes.
“I told you,” he says, his voice equally cold. “You’re my guest.”
“You’re keeping me captive.”
“It’s a hell of a gilded cage, isn’t it?”
I swallow hard, stand up straight.
“It’s still a cage.”
Julian stands, stalks toward where I’m standing. He towers over me yet again, his good eye boring down into my face.
“You’re here at my pleasure,” he says, his voice as dangerous as I’ve ever heard it. “I suggest you remember that, Isabelle Marchand.”
Then he walks away, through the door, and into his own bedroom. I’m still standing there when I hear the shower turn on and start running.
His pleasure.
Why do I like it when he says that, so much more than I should?
The package waiting for me in the parlor is… nice.
It’s a fancy white box wrapped with black velvet ribbons, neatly stacked on a side table.
I’m positive Julian didn’t do this himself. I’d be amazed if he knew how to tie a bow, let alone make a package look nice.
And I’m equally positive that these aren’t going to be the street clothes I was hoping for. Jeans and t-shirts don’t come in boxes like this. I’m not sure I’ve ever bought anything that came in a box like this, to be totally honest, so I’m not sure what they contain.
I pick one up, hold it next to my head, shake it. Whatever’s in there just barely whispers against the box, and I hear the faint sound of paper crinkling inside.
My heart beats a little faster, and heat winds down through my body in a way I don’t quite like. I don’t want it associated with Julian, at least, that’s for damn sure.
But I have a feeling that whatever’s in
here isn’t exactly prisoner material.
I head back to my room, already blushing, toss the box onto the bed and rip the lid off before I can lose my nerve.
Inside is a black puddle of fabric. My first thought is that he’s given me bed sheets for some reason I don’t understand, black sheets, but then I gather my nerve, step forward, and pull it out.
It’s lingerie.
No, it’s a dress.
No, it’s… lingerie? A slip?
I heft the fabric in my hands and it slithers through, already heated with the warmth of my body. It feels like it’s a live animal with a mind of its own, glimmering darkly in the scant light of my bedroom.
I’m lost. I have no idea what to do, or what I should do — I could put it on, of course, that part is obvious, but do I want to? Is putting it on a good idea?
I’m still a prisoner, and a political prisoner at that — if I wear this sleek, silky dress that the prince gave me, does that make me something else entirely?
I toss the dress onto the bed lightly and notice the note in the box.
I’ll be back at six. Wear what’s in the box. Nothing else.
It’s not signed, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who left this note. My whole body heats up, inside and out, my toes clenching against the floor. I reach for the dress, caressing it one more time, fighting my own impulses.
Don’t do it, I think. Don’t do anything he wants.
But dear God, I want to. There’s a dirty, craven part of me that gets a little wet just reading this note in his commanding voice. That part of me wants to wear the dress, wants him to see me with nothing but thin silk between his body and mine.
I take the note out of the box, then realize there’s one more package in there. It’s small and heavy, and when I shake it, it jingles.
I open it, slowly, my palms sweaty because I don’t know what to expect. A dress seems like one thing, but is this… something else? Handcuffs, some sort of restraint, a sex toy?