The woman on the cross, with the whipped breasts, gazed with blank eyes. ‘No, master.’
The man chuckled gleefully as he pulled out a long set of tongs. ‘I’m waiting, princess. Time to talk and save your little sister here.’ He lifted the device over the pussy of the tortured girl, one handle in each of his craggy hands.
‘I-I would do anything you said,’ Allura blurted. ‘Anything at all.’
‘Too vague.’ He squeezed the pincers shut on the tiny pink nub between the girl’s thighs, making her jerk against her bonds. ‘Isn’t she a work of art?’ he sighed. ‘The way her body responds to pain is quite something.’ He moved the pincers from place to place, over her labia and back to her clitoris, and with fine manipulations he won from her an emphatic spasm.
‘I would give you pleasure,’ offered the princess, presenting the first thing that came to her mind to divert the man. ‘Wouldn’t you like that?’
‘Be still my beating heart.’ The sarcasm was not lost, nor was the sudden arching of the girl’s back and the way she turned to Allura with pleading eyes.
‘Wait, I’ll do more,’ Allura blurted. ‘I’ll do anything you want me too.’
The loathsome brute seemed intrigued by this offer, dropped the tongs and shuffled over to her.
‘What’s the matter,’ he croaked as she cringed away from him, his bloodshot eyes boring into her, his breath fetid, ‘can’t handle a real man?’
‘Please, just let me go,’ she begged. ‘I can get you anything you want.’
‘Why would I want anything?’ he scoffed. ‘I’m living and working in paradise.’ The dungeon keeper pinched her nipples, alternating pain with an odd, shameful pleasure.
‘D-don’t touch me,’ she groaned.
‘Oh, giving orders, are we?’ He smacked her face, leaving an instant, blotchy handprint on her cheek. ‘You’re forgetting, I give the orders down here. Apologize to me, your better.’
‘I’m… sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Sorry, master,’ he corrected. ‘Down here I’m your master.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry master.’
‘I’m the lord of this particular manor, and you’re nothing more than a slut, the lowliest of bitches.’
‘Yes, master, I’m a slut and a lowly bitch.’
He smacked her other cheek. ‘Not lowly; lowliest.’
‘Sorry,’ she corrected pitifully. ‘Please don’t be angry with me.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to be angry,’ he mocked. ‘I lose sleep worrying that I might be too angry with you dears, but what can we do?’ He scratched his stubbly jaw exaggeratedly, as though trying to solve a problematic puzzle. ‘Aha, I know…’
The dungeon keeper limped away to a dingy corner, rummaged around for a few moments, and then returned with a fearsome, coiled whip, and Allura shivered at the ominous presence of it.
‘This whip is made for use on animals,’ he informed her, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘Are you an animal, slut?’
Allura feared a trick question. ‘I-I don’t know, master.’
‘Then I shall have to educate you, shall I not?’ he drawled, brushing the leather coils over her treacherously hard nipples. ‘A whip like this doesn’t just punish a female,’ he went on, Allura barely hearing his goading ramblings, ‘it fucks her.’
Allura accepted the handle pressed to her lips, and without being told she parted them and he pushed it deep, her jaw aching as her mouth filled with pungent leather. Frightening herself with her obedience she sucked, wanting the feel of it all the way to the back of her throat, the smell and taste of leather filling her nostrils and her mouth, mingling sickeningly with the dungeon keeper’s odor and the stench of the foreboding dungeon, and the constant pull of the cuffs on her wrists, pulling her body so vulnerably taut as she hung there.
‘How about it?’ He removed the saliva coated handle from between her lips. ‘Ready to be whipped?’
She had no way to resist; no reserves of strength, no option left except to accept. ‘Y-yes, master,’ she whispered meekly, and he cackled smugly, shuffling behind her. She was braced but not truly ready, knowing something terrible was coming, but unprepared for quite how terrible.
At first he merely ran the coils up and down her back, and expecting so much worse she was caught off guard, frightened of being lured into a false sense of security.
‘You’ve a fine backside,’ he praised lewdly. ‘That’s how a young filly ought to be, with an ass ripe for whipping.’
The odious wretch pulled back his wiry arm, and Allura heard the whip dragging back on the dirty stone floor and grimly braced herself.
Her screams filled the small chamber as the lash bit into her back and she twisted and writhed in her bonds.
The scrawny arm reared back again and delivered another cruel lash, cutting through her senses, sending her emotions soaring.
‘How many,’ he taunted. ‘How many marks for the lady today? Ten, my fair slut, or did I hear twenty?’
‘None, master, please…’
‘Nine?’ he teased. ‘Did you say nine?’
Three times more, in a lattice style across her back and buttocks, he worked his hellish strokes, welts in red and blue, the colors of torture, working the froth of sadistic ecstasy.
‘And they say a humble servant such as myself can’t enjoy his work,’ he mused, the sole audience for his own distorted humor. ‘Ah, for a mirror,’ he sighed admiring his handiwork.
‘Am I well marked, dungeon keeper?’ Allura whispered. ‘I trust you did your work well?’
‘I know my art,’ he said.
‘You must describe it to me. I want to know as well as feel… please, do not keep me waiting.’
‘Fine lines, well placed,’ he told her. ‘A slut’s marking, crisscrossing your back.’
‘Are there bruises,’ she pressed, ‘and welts? I have to know it all.’
‘They are a thing of beauty,’ he confirmed, ‘and will leave you marked a fair long while.’
‘And any who sees me,’ she followed the dark reasoning, ‘will know what happened to me. They’ll know I was here, a punished dungeon slut. What an irony this is. Do you know how many I have sent to dungeons like this? Do you think we are any different, you and me?’
‘I’d say being on one side of the whip or the other makes plenty of difference.’
‘My slaves lived in terror of me,’ she reflected, lost in her reverie. ‘They knew from the time I was a little girl that there was a coldness in my eyes.’
‘Indicating what?’ He was licking the sweat from her back, but she barely seemed to notice his lurid attention.
‘Indicating my penchant for preying on the weak.’
‘Ah,’ he chuckled, ‘as I do.’
‘Punish me for it,’ she pleaded.
‘Are you daring me or mocking me?’ The dungeon keeper released her from her bonds. ‘Whichever, you are madder than I,’ he concluded, dragging her across the floor, ‘so some time in the hold is what you need to regain your senses.’
The hold lay behind a heavy door of iron through which shone no light. There were no windows, no openings of any kind.
‘Have fun, my sweet,’ said the dungeon keeper, slamming shut the foreboding door, locking her inside, condemned to solitary darkness, and there she was left to dwell on the defeat of the baron, how she would survive this hell and emerge, stronger, his worst nightmare.
Chapter Eight
Allura spoke to no one of her time in the dungeon. The last thing she did before her release was to look the dungeon keeper in the eye and spit upon him, but it seemed a strangely endearing gesture, done with an oddly chilling smile that he seemed to appreciate.
‘Until we meet again,’ he drawled, wiping the insult from his face, touching it to his thin, colorless lips.
‘That will not be upon t
his earth,’ she replied.
‘In hell, then,’ he chuckled.
The dress the baron provided for Allura was of yellow silk, trimmed in white lace. It was a perfect fit, hugging her trim waist and shapely bosom, exposing her tantalizing, shadowy cleavage. She would drive the hateful man mad with desire, the prospect of which delightedly her greatly, for she was determined that he would never receive pleasure from her again.
Rodolfo arrived to escort her down to the great hall, and the look of chagrin on his face was all the encouragement she needed to damn him to his face. ‘I am surprised you have the audacity to continue breathing the air of this world, Rodolfo, being a man of no honor,’ she said. ‘Are you so afraid of death as to deny the mercy that might come from the gods as a result of a cleansing suicide?’
He attempted to hide his deep disgrace. ‘I seek to follow my orders, that is my place in life.’
‘Orders?’ she scoffed. ‘And from whom do you take them? Your evil baron or the demon seed that rules your heart?’
He took her arm, leading her downstairs. ‘Once you spoke to me of a common alliance, princess,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I would talk of it again. The truth is I think of you every night. I dream of you.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Very well, await my orders,’ she told him, smiling triumphantly within as he left her at the entrance to the great hall.
Allura held her head high as she walked across the marble floor. It had been an emotional day, a topsy-turvy day; from the depths of despair she’d been restored to her former status, at least by virtue of clothing. But where did she stand? Who was the baron to her? Did he love her, hate her, or both? Would he punish her? One battle upon another, the man seeming to back down only to attack again with even more vigor.
And now he was sitting upon his high chair, looking every bit as arrogant as the day she’d first seen him lounging on her father’s throne. She could not help but think of herself upon the floor, groveling for the apple peel with her lips.
‘Wife, come and sit beside me,’ he called, beckoning languidly with one hand, and she did so, perching uncomfortably on the seat beside his.
‘You look lovely, my dear,’ he drooled, kissing her hand, but she said nothing as she surveyed the finely dressed people gathered in the hall, men and women from the highest born houses.
‘What is the purpose of all this, Montreico?’ she eventually asked.
‘Tonight you become queen,’ he informed her. ‘It is your uncle we await. He has agreed to give us his blessing, and the nobles in turn will clear the way to granting you queen.’
‘With you naturally positioned as the power behind the throne,’ she added dryly
‘Cynicism does not suit you,’ he sniggered.
‘Evil plotting, however, seems to suit you just fine,’ she countered, becoming more focused by the minute, the greed and malevolence of the man so obvious. But soon these traits would be his own downfall.
At that moment there was a commotion, some guards opening the great doors and entering the hall, their spears aggressively ready. A single courtier was ushered in, the man dressed in purple with a feathered cap. He stopped midway between the dais and the door and cleared his throat with ceremonial, if not theatrical aplomb.
‘The Grand Duke Fortragian,’ he announced, and the grand duke, who seemed rather annoyed by the fuss, strode directly past him. The baron stood and stepped down, preparing to greet him at the end of the red carpet. Allura remained seated, by virtue of her office.
‘Fortragian,’ the baron followed his bow with a hearty clasp of the older man’s hand, ‘you do us a great honor.’
‘You gave me little choice, Montreico,’ he grumbled. ‘Really, a man of my age and position should hardly be summoned on a moment’s notice. What could possibly be so urgent? And furthermore, what of these rumors at court concerning your treatment of the princess, and your lack of piety to the gods? If this is some attempt to legitimate a false position on your part—’
‘Not at all.’ The baron looked calm enough, but Allura was sure he was bluffing. If there were some groundswell against him it would only be a matter of time before the peers acted, or the body of high priests.
Yet the dukes and barons were assembled, and many of the high priests as well, so what trick did Montreico have up his sleeve?
‘In fact, Fortragian, I am prepared to not only defend my position but to raise it to one of complete and sacred unassailability,’ the baron said confidently. ‘And to this end I offer a witness; one whose word exceeds that of all the priests, whose legitimacy surpasses that of all the nobles put together. Need I spell it out any further?’
‘I have no taste for guessing games, Montreico,’ said the old man harshly. ‘Produce your evidence and your witness now or I shall take my leave, having considered this journey a waste of time.’
‘Very well, I shall,’ the baron continued smoothly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Intentionary Priestess, the Sublime Ekalianuma, Tertia the Fifteenth.’
A collective gasp was drawn from those assembled.
‘Montreico, what are you babbling about?’ demanded the grand duke.
‘It is true, she is here and she will auger on my behalf.’
‘No intentionary priestess has left the Ekalia Temple for centuries, baron. What you speak is impossible.’
‘All things are possible, grand duke,’ spoke a conceitedly melodic voice. ‘It is merely that we do not know the ingredients to call them into being.’
‘Mother Seer,’ croaked the old man, who had just seen something to widen even his jaded old eyes.
‘Be at ease,’ she touched his elbow. ‘All shall be well.’
Allura wondered what that meant, or indeed why a figure of such utter recluse and sacred value in their land would come to the castle of a mere baron and for such a completely non-religious purpose.
‘The Great Mother Seer has come to testify and give her blessing to this ascension to the throne of Princess Allura, with myself as husband, as well as protector and guardian of the realm,’ the baron announced.
So that was it. He planned to name himself de facto king. But surely the priestess would not support such a thing.
‘I shall speak what I have come to speak,’ the holy woman confirmed. ‘No more, no less.’
‘May I ask, great lady, that you turn to face the assembly?’ The baron could hardly control the gloating in his voice. ‘I believe they all need to hear this.’ The odious man was about to get everything he wanted, and without drawing a drop of blood in conflict.
The priestess, whose hooded white robe covered her slender frame entirely from neck to toe, turned and lifted her arms to the stunned assembly. Not one dared speak a word; few scarcely could believe the evidence of their own senses. It was indeed an event, a presence most unprecedented.
‘People before me, and those not before me, to all who hear these words spoken and those who do not, to those above and below, fore and aft the grave, hear this auger,’ the woman declared in the obfuscating terms of a religious leader. ‘A warning do I give unto this house and to this land. A curse do I expose.’
Now it was the baron’s turn for a shock. ‘Priestess, what is this you are saying?’ he demanded. ‘This is not as we discussed!’
It was Rodolfo who restrained him as he attempted to seize her. ‘Sir, have you lost your mind?’ he warned. ‘It is damnation to lay hands upon the priestess!’
‘Let the priestess speak,’ commanded the grand duke. ‘We shall be to the bottom of this outrage at last.’
‘She,’ the priestess wheeled about to face the seated Allura, ‘is not the true issue of the king. She is abomination and she must never sit upon the throne.’
At once swords were drawn, by the grand duke’s men and by the baron’s alike. Cr
ies could be heard throughout the hall and sounds of protest. Allura herself put a hand to her breast as though stabbed. It was not possible. The priestess was speaking a lie, a most vile and destructive falsehood.
‘Silence!’ commanded Fortragian, recovering for the moment the mettle of his youth. ‘Any who disrupts this assembly shall perish by my own hand! Holy priestess, we humbly bid you, explain yourself.’
‘She is not the daughter of the former king,’ the priestess repeated. ‘A second time I say this, and now a third. She is imposter set in place of the true heir. Place her over your lands as queen, place upon her head the crown and you shall be cursed unto the end of time.’
‘But this cannot be!’ the baron cried. ‘Priestess, you already said to me it would be an issue of this house – my house – that would one day be king, the legitimate and rightful ruler! How can this be if I have married an imposter? Are you saying now I have bedded this whore Allura for nothing? You have deceived me!’
Fortragian’s dagger pressed to the baron’s throat. ‘Speak one more word concerning my niece, Montreico, and I swear I’ll slay you or die in the effort.’
The baron made no effort to disarm the elderly duke. His eyes were on the woman in the white robe and his fists were clenched. ‘Speak,’ he said to the priestess, his voice taking upon itself a tone Allura knew well and feared. It was the same tone that preceded her own worst punishments at his hands. ‘Make this right, great lady, while it is still possible.’
‘All I have said then and now is consistent,’ said the priestess, unperturbed. ‘An issue of this house shall be king. But you shall not be its father, nor she its mother.’
‘But I am baron,’ he snarled, pointing to the shields upon the wall. ‘My crest. My castle. My authority.’
‘This one,’ the priestess pointed to the shocked Rodolfo, ‘shall succeed you as baron. And he shall wed the true princess.’
‘What true princess?’ Fortragian cried. ‘I understand nothing of what you speak.’
‘Behold the rightful issue; the blood royale.’ The priestess raised a finger, sacred and fortuitous, and all waited with bated breath as her eyes scanned the room and she pointed, finally, to a humble slave kneeling at the side of the court, in a row of others, the property of the baron. ‘Her. She is the true daughter of the king.’
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