Princess to Pleasure Slave Collection: The Forbidden Book of Monstrous Pleasures

by Amanda Clover

  The sight of this effortless destruction sent the acolytes back. Ilyanka turned and began to run from the square.

  “M-margery,” cried Jivayn. “Do not let Ilyanka escape!”

  Margery’s glowing gaze followed Jivayn’s gesture and the princess floated after the running acolyte. Her arachnid legs caught another spear and hurled it back, impaling the acolyte that had attacked. Ilyanka ran without looking back. She was nimble and knew the palace. Jivayn saw that the woman was running for one of the strand lines.

  She never made it. Margery’s spider legs impaled Ilyana through her back and out through the molded cups of her chest piece.

  “AAaagggk!” cried Ilyanka, spitting blood as she was lifted from her feet. The princess smiled as she pulled Ilyanka into an embrace. Margery’s mouth was full of sharpened teeth like those of the goddess of love and hate. Ilyanka struggled.

  “Starrrrr,” hissed Margery. “So good to see you one last time.”

  Margery’s teeth bit through the armor of Ilyanka’s shoulder and into the elf’s flesh. Jivayn could not see the traitor’s face, but Margery stared into her lover’s eyes. Jivayn watched as the princess drank the life essence of Ilyanka. The body in her arms went limp and gray and seemed to shrivel. Margery pushed it away with her spider legs, looked at it with a serene smile on her face, and then tore it in half and flung the desiccated parts in two different directions.

  The princess settled onto the ground as lightly as a feather. She was cloaked in a gossamer gown that did nothing to hide her gravid, human roundness. An underground current of air stirred the princess’s hair.

  “Margery!” cried Jivayn and she wept at the beauty of her lover. “My princess… my love.”

  “Jivayn,” replied Margery. She stepped forward and at the last moment she knelt and lowered her gaze. “My high priestess.”

  Those still watching gasped at the act of submission from the godlike figure of Margery. Jivayn did not care. She lifted Margery’s face with her hands and fell to her own knees. She embraced the princess and began kissing her and weeping.

  “All that matters is that you have returned to me,” cried Jivayn. “I thought I had sent you to your death.”

  The spider limbs retreated into Margery’s back and the glow died from her eyes. The princess became almost herself, but for the roundness of her belly and breasts, and she kissed Jivayn passionately. The two lovers kissed and embraced for a very long time, heedless of those who slowly gathered to watch. When the kiss finally ended, Margery looked into Jivayn’s eyes.

  “The prophecy has been fulfilled, my love. I bear the seed of Ionethus.” Margery pulled Jivayn’s hands to her round belly. “I will soon give birth to the daughter who will lead the deep elves back to the surface.”

  “And,” said Jivayn, stroking her lover’s belly, “we shall free the slaves and rule together.”

  “Yes,” agreed Margery. “Yes, my love.”

  Book 17 - The Frogmen

  “To the bride and groom,” said King Heinz Fertig, raising his golden goblet in a toast. “My beautiful daughter, Jianna, and His Royal Highness, King of Maurient.”

  The golden-haired king raised the goblet higher. The noblemen and women gathered around the table toasted with a chorus of, “Here, here!”

  “You’ll be my father in law!” belched King Claude Bouchard. His crudeness forced laughter from the dozens of celebrants. “I thank you for that, papa. And for this lovely thing.”

  King Bouchard draped a heavy arm over Jianna’s shoulder and pulled her in close. The princess wrinkled her impish nose at the stink of the king’s breath. His greasy fingers left orange stains on the virgin white of her bodice as he groped her breast.

  “Lovely,” he grunted and squeezed her breast hard enough to make her gasp. “Such a delight. Tomorrow, my dear, I’ll make you into a woman. I’ll have a baby in you before the sun is down!”

  King Bouchard belched out another loud laugh and once again the guests politely joined him. Not Jianna. She looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wondered how it had come to this so swiftly after her mother had died from the wasting sickness. Her father had always threatened to marry her off for the benefit of the family, but mother was scarcely in the ground a fortnight and already she was betrothed.

  She believed her father’s claim that a marriage to King Bouchard would bring much prosperity and security to her father’s smaller kingdom. Maurient was the capital city and province of the Northern Empire, after all. And she did not doubt she would enjoy great comfort as the wife of the king. But, looking at King Bouchard once more, she could not imagine a less appealing husband. He drank and ate to excess, he was the fattest man she’d ever seen, he smelled, and his hands were upon her body at every opportunity.

  A group of minstrels entered the dining hall and began to perform a play in honor of the wedding. The noble men and women devoted their attention to the play, laughing and gasping where appropriate. Jianna tried to watch, but after only a few lines, she felt King Bouchard’s fat hand on her thigh. She looked over at him and found him looking right back at her, a terrible gleam in his dark eyes.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I wish to enjoy the show.”

  His hand crept closer to that most personal place between her thighs. She dared to push his hand away. King Bouchard tried again, a bit more forcefully, and she pushed his hand away again, a bit more forcefully. She was about to say something more when he caught hold of her hand. Instead of trying to reach into her lap once more, he seized her hand and pulled it into his lap. At once, she felt a vulgar hardness straining his breeches.

  “Right there,” he grunted. “Squeeze it. Feel the beast you’ve awakened with your beauty.”

  He closed his hand over hers and forced her to do as he commanded. She felt his manhood twitch against her palm. She went red in her face and looked around, but all the others, even her father, were focused on the performance of the minstrels.

  “He wants to come out, my dear,” said the king, forcing her hand to knead his hardness.

  King Bouchard shifted in his seat. He grunted and moved his belly to make room for him to unlace his breeches and open the front. His reddish cock stuck up lewdly from a nest of dark hair. It was thicker, but not nearly so long compared to Jianna’s imaginations. Her face burned with shame that the King would force her to look upon – let alone touch – such a thing in the midst of their celebratory feast.

  He took her hand and placed it on his manhood. He closed Jianna’s fingers around the hot flesh of his shaft and forced her to imitate the slow, up-and-down stroke of his hand on his cock. The warmth of that obscene appendage radiated into Jianna’s grasp. She hated it, she hated him, and she hated the way he was defiling her chastity in this way before they had been married.

  Jianna saw no opportunity to refuse the disgusting King and so she stroked his awful phallus without any enthusiasm. This was not adequate for King Bouchard, who slipped his hand down the neck of her dress and began to wantonly fondle her naked bosom. His fingers were soft against her tender flesh, but he used those fingers roughly to squeeze and pinch at the aroused bud of her nipple. She cried out and turned to refuse him with her words.

  His awful mouth covered hers and he pushed his fat tongue between her lips, spreading the sourness of his breath. It was nearly enough to make her gag and yet she did not want to pull away or cry out, lest she draw attention to the humiliating act occurring under the table. It was some relief that her cousins and aunt were raptly watching the minstrels and paid no mind to her embarrassing embrace with the king.

  Jianna received the fat man’s affections with the same lack of enthusiasm that guided her hand on his stiffness. She could not refuse him outright and so she kissed him back and felt his wine-flavored spit slopping into her mouth, his fat fingers treating her breast and nipple like a cow’s udder, and worst of all, the straining bishop in his lap going purple and beginning to leak a slippery juice onto her fingers.
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  Though a true virgin, the princess had read enough accounts of sexual congress to imagine the act vividly. She had been enticed by the idea of a so-called “cock” and how she might ride atop it like she sometimes rubbed against the pommel of her favorite saddle while bouncing on the back of her favorite stallion. Never did she envision this stubby thing turning purple in her reluctant grasp, weeping its translucent juices onto her fingers. Certainly she never pictured any of these acts with a man so loathsome as King Bouchard.

  “That’s it my dear,” he gasped against her lips. “Milk the royal seed from my member. My precious nectar, treasured for creating princes, will soon erupt.”

  He leaned back in his chair to watch her hand upon his cock. It was a small mercy, allowing her to breathe without inhaling his halitosis. She rewarded it by tightening her grasp on the king’s slicked member and rubbing her thumb across the ridge that formed the edge of his cock’s purple, bell-shaped head.

  “Squeeze it harder,” grunted the king.

  He pulled down top of her blouse, exposing her right breast to his view. She had no chance to cover herself as the king began to gasp, the barrel of his chest heaving with exertion as if he was doing more than sitting and enjoying Jianna’s hand.

  Despite her desire to avert her gaze from King Bouchard’s lap, she stared at the slippery phallus that strained to escape her grasp and began to twitch beneath her fingers. She squeezed harder, as he commanded, and King Bouchard let out a wheezing cry of pleasure that drew a glance from one of her uncles. He eyes widened as he witnessed the king’s obvious pleasure and the princess’s hand moving in King Bouchard’s lap. He quickly looked away as his face turned a deep shade of crimson.

  “Yes,” groaned the king. “Yes!”

  Hot fluid spit from the head of his tumescent member in long, glistening strands of white. To Jianna’s amazement, this unwholesome geyser lifted above the table’s edge before curling back down and splattering into the king’s thicket of pubic hair. It dripped over his clenching bollocks and spilled like melted wax over Jianna’s gripping hand. She was relieved when the flow at last diminished to a few pearly drops that beaded to the tip of the king’s cock.

  “You milk a cock with the hand of a buttered whore,” wheezed King Bouchard. A lazy smile spread over his ugly face and he chuckled as he said, “and such a mess you’ve made.”

  She lifted her hand from his cock and saw that jiggling strands of the king’s seed joined her fingers. With her other hand, the princess reached for the cloth napkin in her lap.

  “No,” said the king, his hand still roughly squeezing her breast. “Clean your fingers with your tongue. Taste the royal seed.”

  “P-please,” she whispered. “I cannot do this, my king. It is… vile.”

  He laced his breeches and stared at her with fury.

  “Lick your fingers clean, my dear,” he pushed her hand towards her mouth. “Lick them or I will come to your room on this very night, before we have been wed, and I will fuck your little royal arse. I’ll roger it until you’re begging me to stop.”

  “G-gods, no, I can’t… I can’t lick this, Your Highness.”

  He was unrelenting. He forced the princess’s delicate hand up to her mouth. She could not help but look at the goo-draped fingers and inhale the strange musk of this disgusting fluid. A long strand broke loose of her fingers and spattered into her cleavage.

  “Lick it up, or it will decorate your fat tits, my dear,” laughed the king. “And look, the performance is almost ending.”

  Her heart leapt in her chest. She could not bear to have her humiliation witnessed by the other guests.

  The princess heeded the warning of the king. She brought her hand the last few inches to her face and began to lick. Her licks were tentative at first, tasting the salty jelly that slicked her fingers, but with greater enthusiasm as she sensed the minstrels were finishing their show. The semen was as thick and unpleasant as phlegm, which did not make the task easy. She forced herself to swallow the vile fluid as her free hand worked to conceal her breast and straighten her garment.

  By the time they took their last tumble, Princess Jianna was sucking her fingers clean, the cum tacky in her throat and her mind wandering to what sort of wifely duties would be demanded in her marriage bed with the king. She licked the last salty drops from her lips and began to politely applaud as the minstrels took their bow.

  “I will see you in your bed tonight for further pleasure,” the king whispered, kissing her, embracing her and leaving her to finish entertaining the guests.

  “I did everything you asked,” Jianna called after the king. She was desperate to avoid his particular idea of “further pleasure.” He merely turned back to smile and wave before departing to his spacious quarters on the fourth floor of the castle.

  The guests, including her father, turned to her, expecting her to play the host in the absence of the king. She did so ably, smiling through her embarrassment, and pretending not to notice the occasional splotch of seed glistening on her white dress.

  “The king,” she explained to all those guests, “overindulged and decided to retire to his bed for the night.”

  Only her uncle, with a twinkle in his lecherous eyes, knew the truth. He held her hand for a very long time when they embraced for goodnight.

  “What a lucky man,” he whispered to her. “May you quench his lust with that lovely body.”

  The last guest finally left and Jianna was permitted by her father to go to her bedroom in the north-facing tower of the castle. The celebratory lanterns had been extinguished along the walls of the castle. There were no barges or ships on the wide Alieu River, only darkness. No lights in the hills even farther away and certainly only darkness to be found in the bogs that stretched among the hills to the horizon.

  Most who lived in her father’s kingdom believed the bogs to be cursed. Jianna had traveled into them before. She knew there were strange creatures, perhaps even dangerous creatures, but no curse. She saw their village once. With their strange, smooth houses made from mud and their calls that reached through the night like huge bullfrogs. Wugs, the humans called them, frog men who could swim through the foul waters of the bog or walk upright like a man. She had never seen one of these creatures, even when she glimpsed their village, and she wondered if they would look more like a man or like a frog.

  After the disgusting events of the evening, and the threat to visit her bed, the princess did not turn her mind to the bog out of idle curiosity. Since her engagement and first meeting with King Bouchard, she had begun her planning. She would not – could not – marry a beast like Bouchard.

  Princess Jianna Fertig was a free spirit. She might have married for love, but not to be the bed slave to some ogre like Bouchard. She was clever, a good rider, an explorer, and a brave young woman. She even knew a bit of magic, though her family had refused her tutors or a visit to one of the guild academies in distant cities.

  The touch of magic had come to her in dreams and she had expanded her knowledge with a book she found for sale from a trader of faraway Shaddobar. It was a forbidden book, small and black and clearly very old. It was her most prized possession, and though she struggled to read its words, she had learned the basic workings of a handful of spells.

  Jianna stripped out of her gown and corset, gasping with relief as her large breasts fell free of their confinement. She lifted the warm flesh in her hands, looking at her profile in the mirror that hung on her wall. These she took from her mother, who had an enormous bust as well. The princess was quite slender otherwise. Her hips were not particularly wide for a girl of age and her bottom was round, but very firm from her running and climbing. Between her silky thighs was a thatch of blond hair. It matched the long, straw-blond hair on her head, woven into a braid with a crown of flowers. One by one, Jianna plucked out the flowers, and let her golden locks fall loose past her shoulders.

  She dressed in simple underclothes, breeches, dark blouse, and a simple jacket o
f brown leather that she buttoned snugly over her breasts. It pained her to leave her fine riding boots. She wore, instead, the rugged boots of a bog picker. She had bought them days earlier from a confused shopkeeper in Larou. “For my husband,” she had told the man. He had recognized her and wondered why the king would want a workman’s boots of unexceptional quality.

  The boots felt heavy and awkward. They were sealed with wax to be proofed against the bog’s water. They reached up to her knees with stiff shanks that made her feel a bit like she was wearing stilts. Her small travel pack was filled with mementos, a bit of gold, and some spare underclothes.

  She stole out the door of her bedroom and crept through the silent corridors of her family castle. There were a few guards out, patrolling by the light of their lanterns. Jianna had spent her whole life in the castle. She knew every nook, disused passage, and storage room. The guards stood no chance of finding her as she made her way down from the tower and out through the servant’s kitchen.

  Cries of alarm went up from the castle as Jianna made her way down to the river. Someone, perhaps the king, must have visited her room and found that she was missing. She had not expected them to realize she was gone so quickly, but it did not change her plan. She reached the Alieu River. The moonlight was obscured by clouds so she could not see the opposite bank of the wide river. She searched the brush nearby and found her canoe. She dragged out the small boat, climbed into it, and began to paddle desperately to cross the river.

  Unseen currents partially overturned the small boat. She pushed and paddled with all her might turning it back over and continuing on her way. She was thankful her feet were dry, thanks to the boots, but her jacket and hair were soaked. Even her breeches were cold with water in the night air. She looked back over her shoulder and saw dozens of torches and lanterns on the ramparts of the castle and spreading out from the gates to search for her.