by Anne Rice
Beauty was too stunned to say anything. “And I will be sent there,” she finally murmured.
“0, surely. At least twice a week we’re packed off, all of us. It’s only a little ways up the lane, and we’re sent on our own, and for some reason, that always seems a terrible part of the punishment. But don’t be afraid when the time comes. Just remember, if you come back with that little bag of coins in your buttocks, you’ll make the Mistress very happy.”
Beauty laid her cheek against the cool grass. “I don’t ever want to go back to the castle,” she thought. “I don’t care how hard it is here, how frightening!” She looked at Prince Richard. “Have you ever thought of running away?” she asked. “I wonder if the Princes don’t think of that.”
“No,” he laughed. “And it was a Princess who ran away last night, by the way. And I’ll tell you a secret. They haven’t found her. They don’t want anyone to know either. Go back to sleep now. The Captain will be in a terrible frame of mind tonight if they haven’t captured her by that time. You don’t think of running away, do you?”
“No,” Beauty shook her head.
He turned to the Inn door. “I think I hear them coming. Go on back to sleep if you can. We have another hour or so.”
PUBLIC TENTS
IN THE early evening, I was a pony again, safe in my harnesses, thinking almost sardonically of my trepidation the night before when the tail and the bit had seen such unthinkable humiliations. We reached the manor house before dark, and I was singled out to be made a footstool for my master for hours beneath the dining table.
The conversation was long. Others were there, rich merchants and farmers of the town, talking of crops and weather and the price of the slaves, and the undeniable fact that the village needed more slaves, not just the fine, often temperamental little lovelies from the castle, but solid lesser Tributes who need not ever see the Queen, the sons and daughters of petty nobles under her protection. Such slaves did come from time to time, right to auction in the marketplace. Why couldn’t there be more?
My Master was fairly quiet all the time. I started living and breathing for the sound of his voice. But he laughed at this last suggestion and asked dryly, “And who would like to demand that of her Majesty?”
I listened to every word, gleaning, not so much knowledge I did not possess before, but an increased sense of my lowliness. They told little stories about bad slaves, punishments, common events they thought humorous. And it was as if none of the slaves serving the table or those used as footstools like myself had ears or sense, or need be given the slightest consideration.
Finally it was time to go.
With a bursting cock, I took my place to pull the coach back to the town house, wondering if the other ponies had been satisfied as usual in the stable.
And when we reached the village, and the ponies were sent off, my Mistress started to whip me on the short barefoot journey along the dark road to the Place of Public Punishment.
I started crying, weary and desperate from the exertions and the starvation of my loins. The Mistress wielded the strap more vigorously than had the Master. And I was deviled mercilessly by the realization that it was she behind me, in her lovely dress, driving me on with that little hand. The day seemed infinitely longer than the one before it, and whatever I’d felt earlier about welcoming the Public Turntable, I was now in frantic fear of it. My fear was worse than last night. I knew what it was to be whipped there. The Master’s affection after seemed like some absurd flight of imagination.
But it wasn’t the busy Maypole circle for me, or the brilliantly illuminated turntable.
I was driven through the flowing crowd, into one of the small tents behind the pillories. My Mistress paid ten pence at the entrance and then drew me after her into the shadows.
A naked Princess with long gleaming copper-colored braids squatted on a stool, knees wide, ankles bound together, her hands tethered to the tent pole high above her. She worked her hips desperately when she heard us come in, but her eyes were bound with a red silk blindfold.
When I saw the soft, sweet, moist sex glinting in the torchlight from the square, I thought I could no longer control myself.
I bowed my head, wondering what torment I should know now, but my Mistress said very gently that I was to rise.
“I’ve paid ten pence for you to have her, Tristan,” she said.
I could scarce believe my ears. I turned first to kiss the Mistress’s shoes, but she only laughed and told me to stand up and enjoy the girl as I wished.
I started to obey, but I stopped, my head still bowed, the grasping little sex right before my own, realizing that my Mistress stood very near watching. She even stroked my hair. And I understood I was to be looked at, even studied.
I gave a little shudder all over. And when I resigned myself to it, a new ingredient heightened my excitement. My cock darkened all the more and bobbed as if trying to pull me forward.
“Slowly, if you like,” said my Mistress. “She’s lovely enough to play with.”
I nodded. The Princess had an exquisite little mouth, red shuddering lips that gave little gasps now of apprehension and anticipation. It could have been better only if Beauty were kneeling there.
I kissed the Princess violently, my hands greedily clutching her heavy little breasts and bouncing them and massaging them. She went into a paroxysm of longing. Her mouth sucked at mine, her body straining forward, and I lowered my head to suck at her breasts one by one, as she cried, her hips swaying wildly. It was almost too much to wait longer.
But I circled her, running my hands over her gorgeous buttocks, and as I pinched her little welts, very small welts really, she gave a lovely inviting moan and arched her back to show me her tender red sex from the rear as best she could, straining the rope that held her hands above her.
That was how I wanted to take her, her vagina from the rear, stabbing upwards, lifting her, and when I slid in, her tight little sex seemed almost too small and she gave loud gasps as I forced my way into the hot wet depth of her.
Her cries took on a despair. She was being well used, but her little clitoris wasn’t being touched by my cock, I knew, and I wasn’t going to disappoint her. I reached around her, finding the little core under its hood of wet skin, parting her plump lips a little roughly, and when I pinched the clitoris, she gave a sharp grateful cry, rocking her smooth little buttocks back against me.
My Mistress drew close. Her broad full skirts stroked my leg, and I felt her hand under my chin. It was agony to realize she was looking at me and would see my reddened face at the moment of climax.
But it was my lot. And an exultation swept me up right in the middle of the pleasure. I felt the Mistress’s hand on my buttocks. I rammed the little Princess all the harder, feeling my Mistress’s gaze, and caressed the wet clit with sharp rhythmic pressure.
My cock burst as I gritted my teeth, my face burning hot, my hips jerking helplessly. A long low groan was torn out of my chest. The Mistress held my head in her hands. And my breath came in loud relieved gasps, the little Princess crying with the same ecstasy.
I leaned forward, embracing the warm little body, and laid my head against the Princess’s head, turning to face my Mistress. I felt her soothing fingers on my hair. And her eyes fixed me steadily. She had a strange expression, thoughtful, almost penetrating. She turned her head a little to the side as if she were weighing some conclusion. And she put her hand on my shoulder to let me know I should stay still, embracing the Princess, and she whipped at my buttocks with the belt as I looked at her. I closed my eyes. But I opened them immediately again, smarting under the strap. And the oddest moment passed between us.
If I was saying something silent it was, “You are my Mistress. You own me. And I will not look away until you tell me to. I will look into what you are and what you do.” And she seemed to hear this and to be fascinated.
She stood back and let me remain long enough to collect my strength. I kissed the little Princ
ess’s neck.
And then very tentatively I went down on my knees and kissed my Mistress’s feet and the end of the strap hanging from her hand.
The little Princess had not been enough for me. My cock was already rising. I could have taken every proffered slave in every tent. And for one desperate moment I was tempted to kiss my Mistress’s shoes again and wriggle my hips to tell her this. But the sheer vulgarity of it was beyond me. Besides, she might only have laughed and whipped me. No, I had to wait upon her will. And it seemed to me that in these two days, I had not failed, truly failed, in anything. I would not fail now either.
She sent me out into the square, the strap caressing me in the usual fashion. And her lovely little hand pointed to the bath stalls.
I glanced up at the Public Turntable, half afraid I might give her some idea by doing so, but unable not to look at it. An olive-skinned Princess I did not know was the victim, her black hair mounded on her head, her long, lusciously full body snapping under the cracking paddle without fetters. She looked splendid, her dark eyes narrowed and wet, her mouth open in wild cries. She seemed to be yielding utterly. The crowd danced and whooped, cheering her on. And before we reached the bath stall I saw her showered with coins as I had been.
While I was being bathed, one of the handsomest Princes I had ever beheld, Prince Dmitri from the castle, was taking his turn on the Public Turntable. And my cheeks stung with shame for him when I saw him bound down at the knees and at the neck, hands laced as the crowd scolded him. He sobbed over his leather gag and bridled under the paddling.
But my Mistress had seen me looking at the turntable and with a stab of panic I turned my eyes down.
And I kept them that way as I was driven home at a march along the back road and into the household.
Now I shall sleep in some dim corner somewhere, I thought, bound and perhaps even gagged. It’s late and my cock is an iron rod between my legs and my Master is probably sleeping.
But I was being coaxed down the hall. I saw the light under his door. And knocking on the door, my Mistress smiled. “Good-bye, Tristan,” she whispered and played with a little lock of my hair before leaving me there.
MISTRESS LOCKLEY’S AFFECTIONS
IT WAS almost dark when Beauty awoke. The sky was still light, though a handful of tiny stars had appeared. And Mistress Lockley, dressed for the evening, no doubt, in red with embroidered puffed sleeves, was sitting on the grass with her skirts in a lovely circle. The wooden paddle was tethered to her apron sash, but it was half buried in the white linen. She snapped her fingers for the awakening slaves to come to her, and as they gathered around her on their knees, sore buttocks back on their heels, she gently fed them bits of fresh peach and apple with her fingers.
“Good girl,” she said stroking the chin of a lovely brown-haired Princess as she put a bit of peeled apple into her eager mouth. And she pinched her nipple gently.
Beauty flushed. But the other slaves were in no way surprised by this sudden affection.
And when Mistress Lockley looked straight at her, Beauty leaned her head forward tentatively for the bit of wet fruit, shivering as the fingers stroked her sore nipples. In a rush of confusing sensation, she remembered every detail of the ordeal in the kitchen. Almost bashfully, she blushed again, glancing shyly at Prince Richard, who was looking at the Mistress eagerly.
Mistress Lockley’s face was calm and pretty, her black hair a deep shadow behind her shoulders. She kissed Prince Richard, their open mouths interlocking, her hand stroking his erect penis and reaching down to cradle his balls. His little story had crept into Beauty’s dreams as she slept on the grass, and Beauty felt a hot stab of jealousy and excitement. Prince Richard had an almost winsome attitude, his green eyes filled with good humor and his long, almost luscious mouth glistening with the moisture of the bit of peach that was pushed slowly into it.
Beauty did not know exactly why her heart was pounding.
In the same manner Mistress Lockley played with all the slaves. She fondled a little blond-haired Princess between the legs until she writhed like the white kitchen cat, and then made her open her mouth to catch the grapes that were dropped into it. Prince Roger she kissed even more lingeringly than she had Prince Richard, tugging at the dark pubic curls around his cock and examining his balls as he blushed as deeply as Beauty.
Then the Mistress sat as if thinking. It seemed to Beauty the slaves in subtle ways tried to keep her attention. The brown-haired Princess actually bent and kissed the tip of Mistress Lockley’s shoe as it peeped from under her ruffled white petticoats.
But one of the kitchen girls was coming with a large flat bowl, which she set on the grass, and with a snap of the fingers, everyone was directed to lap the delicious red wine from it. Beauty had never tasted anything so sweet and good.
A heavy broth followed, with strongly spiced bits of tender meat.
Then the slaves gathered again and Mistress Lockley pointed to Prince Richard and to Beauty and gestured to the Inn door. The others shot them sharp hostile glances. “But what is happening?” Beauty thought. Richard moved on hands and knees as fast as he could, it seemed, but never losing his lithesome manner while doing it. And Beauty followed, feeling awkward in comparison.
Mistress Lockley led the way up the narrow steps behind the chimney and down the corridor past the door of the Captain’s room to another bedroom.
As soon as the door closed, and Mistress Lockley lit the candles, Beauty realized it was a woman’s chamber. The paneled bed was fitted with embroidered linen and dresses hung on hooks on the wall, and there was a large mirror above the fireplace.
Richard kissed Mistress Lockley’s feet and looked up.
“Yes, you may take them off,” she said, and as the Prince unlaced her boots, Mistress Lockley unlaced her own bodice and gave it to Beauty with the order to fold it neatly and put it on the table. At the sight of the loosening blouse, and the mark of the bodice lacings still pressed in the wrinkled linen, Beauty felt a tempest inside herself. Her breasts ached as if they were still being spanked on the kitchen cutting block. On her knees, Beauty obeyed the command, her hands trembling as she folded the fabric.
When she turned back Mistress Lockley had removed her ruffled white blouse altogether. The vision of her breasts was stunning. She untied the wooden paddle from her skirts, and then untied the skirts themselves. The Prince took the paddle and drew the skirts off her, and away from her feet. Then the petticoats came down and Beauty took them, her face beating with a strong blush again, as she glanced at the soft black curly pubic hair and the large breasts with their dark, upturned nipples.
Beauty folded the petticoat and laid it down, and timidly turned to look behind her. Mistress Lockley, naked as a slave, and easily as beautiful, her hair a black veil down her back, beckoned for both her slaves to come to her.
She reached for Beauty’s head and brought it towards her slowly. Beauty’s breath was hoarse and anxious. She was staring at the triangle of hair before her, the dark pink lips barely visible beneath it. She had seen hundreds of naked Princesses in all positions, yet the sight of this naked Mistress dazed her. Her face was moist all over. And of her own will she pressed her mouth to the glistening hair and the peeping lips, shrinking back as if they had been hot coals, her hands to her hot face uncertainly.
Then she put her open mouth on the sex, feeling the tight curls against her mouth, and the soft resilient lips unlike anything, it seemed, she had ever kissed before.
Miss Lockley thrust her hips forward while she lifted Beauty’s hands and guided them to her hips so that Beauty suddenly wrapped her arms around Mistress Lockley. Beauty’s breasts pumped as if they would burst the nipples, and her own sex convulsed feverishly. She opened her mouth wide and ran her tongue under the thick pooch of red folds, and suddenly forced her tongue between the lips, tasting the musky, salty juices. With a wrenching sigh, she hugged Mistress Lockley tightly. Vaguely she was aware that Richard had risen behind the Mistress
and slipped his arms under Mistress Lockley’s arms so that he could support her. His hands were on her breasts, pressing on the nipples.
But Beauty lost herself in what was before her. The hot silk of the hair, the plump wet lips, the moisture oozing onto her tongue, all this stirred in her a frenzy.
And the woman’s soft sigh above, her helpless sigh, ignited some new spark in Beauty. Madly she licked and stabbed with her tongue as if she were starved for the salty delicious flesh. And hooking the round, tough little clitoris on the tip of her tongue, she sucked on it with all the pressure she could exert, the wet hair covering her own mouth and nose, drenching her in the sweet, musky scent, as she sighed even louder than the Mistress. The very littleness of it drove her on; it was unlike a cock, and yet so like a cock, this little nodule that she knew was the wellspring of her Mistress’s rapture, and bent on nothing but that rapture, she licked and sucked and stroked it with her teeth until the Mistress was spreading her legs, tilting her hips, groaning loudly. All the images of the kitchen torture flashed in Beauty’s mind—this was the one who had spanked her breasts—and she fed deeper and deeper, until she was almost biting the mound, slurping with her tongue, burrowing into the sex, and rocking her own hips in time with the movement. At last Mistress Lockley cried out, and her hips froze in the air, as her whole body became rigid.
“No! No more!” The Mistress almost screamed. She clutched Beauty’s head, tearing it loose gently, and she sank back into the Prince’s arms, breathing unevenly.
Beauty fell back on her heels.
She shut her eyes trying not even to hope for satisfaction, trying not to picture the dark, glistening pubis again or to think of the rich taste of it. But her tongue touched the roof of her mouth over and over as if she were still licking Mistress Lockley.