Caralissa's Conquest Page 15

  Caralissa winced, a teardrop forming in the corner of her eye. It was like being her own torturer, all for his pleasure.

  ‘Keep one hand on your nipple,’ he said, his voice thickening audibly. ‘Squeeze it. Slap your arse with the other. Again. Harder.’

  Caralissa felt the sting, doubly sharp as it reverberated from her soft buttocks to her equally soft palm. ‘Alinor, please, that’s enough.’

  He slapped her face; lazily, just hard enough to get her attention. ‘Did I say to stop?’

  ‘N-no,’ she stammered. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Alternate the cheeks of your arse with your right hand,’ he instructed, giving her no quarter. ‘At the same time, with your left, pass back and forth continuously between your nipples and with every third stroke work yourself between your legs.’

  She looked at him pitifully.

  ‘Go on,’ he said harshly. ‘Do it or I shall scream for your gaolers. What will they do, seeing you like this, your majesty? Will they do to you what you deserve - making you a slave?’

  Caralissa struck herself, the sound of her palm coming like the crack of a tree branch. Lurching forward she pressed her breast into her own cruelly pinching fingers. She could not allow him to denounce her because they would get the wrong idea. They would think her less than a queen, less even than a woman.

  ‘How does this feel, little Caralissa?’ he taunted, his eyes moving hungrily back and forth as she persisted in her self-abuse. ‘Is it as enjoyable for you as torturing me with your teasing, unavailable little body, giving me little glimpses and sighs, making me hard and throbbing and leaving me with nothing but a sore arse for my troubles?’

  Caralissa bit her lip. ‘Mercy,’ she begged. ‘Please.’

  ‘Mercy?’ he snickered. ‘For a naked slut? That is what you are, isn’t it?’

  She made no response. Quite honestly, at this juncture she did not know what she was or who.

  ‘Tell me you’re a naked slut,’ he coaxed. ‘Say the words.’

  ‘I am,’ she said, her voice coming in hot stabs, ‘a naked slut.’

  ‘Open your eyes, naked slut. Read the rest of my poem. Though under no circumstances will you leave off what I have commanded of you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, twisting her nipple till she yelped, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Call me master.’

  She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would pass, this latest assault, this most impossible of demands. ‘Alinor, you don’t know what you’re asking,’ she said to him when she realised he was serious.

  He pinched her cheeks, compelling her to make eye contact. ‘Do not disobey me again,’ he warned, ‘slave.’

  She beheld the fire in his eyes. Where did it come from, this sudden power to make her do things, to make her lose her will so easily? And how did it come to be that he and nearly everyone else was treating her so differently? Was there something in her appearance now, in her manner of speech that gave them the clues to her new identity?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she heard herself say, her eyes lowering before his, ‘master.’

  Caralissa told herself this was a mere expression, a temporary glitch in her life, that it could have no meaning in the light of day, not for her or him or anyone else. It would pass, just as when she’d said the word to Senelek on the whipping platform. It meant nothing. She continued to tell herself that as she maintained her ongoing response to his gruff command to touch and strike herself, all the while attending to the task of reading the rest of his wicked words.

  ‘“Come and beg”,’ she recited, her voice cracking under the strain, the syllables echoing with the sound of her self-flagellation. ‘“Borrow and steal; pieces of your broken pride, your co-opted womanhood which I will give back to thee on loan at terms I set myself. Come, my she-beast, to be caged and tamed. Come, my she-beast, to be whipped and named. What do I call thee? Whore, temptress, animal, willing slut to my whims; it is my desires you live for, bend for, spread for; Come to me, come and come and come”.’

  The words were an invitation as she moved against her own hand, nipples screaming, vagina trembling. There was no holding back now. Letting the poem flutter from her hand she clenched her thighs, riding to her own climax, her own self-abasement, blatant and sordid under the cynical gaze of the poet.

  ‘Go and fetch me a hairbrush, slave,’ he commanded when she subsided. ‘And be quick about it.’

  Caralissa ran to her dresser. She could not help herself; the need to obey was too strong now. Finding the brush among her bottles of perfume she gave a little sigh of joy. ‘Here, master,’ she cried, placing the rounded silver device in his hands, blithely oblivious to the intentions he might have for it upon her person.

  ‘Bend over, slave. Grasp your ankles, your arse facing me.’

  Caralissa put herself as he ordered. It was a position of maximum exposure and humiliation, and therefore one of great arousal - or at least she found it to be such in her current state of abandon.

  Alinor touched the cold metal to her posterior, initiating a deep shiver of sexual need. ‘You will count the blows, slave. And after each you will beg for the next. This is to be your punishment for the times you dared strike me, making me abase myself to you, my arse bare to your wicked spankings.’

  The first blow nearly knocked her from her feet. It was not so terribly harsh as the whip but she’d been unprepared and the impact nearly cost her balance with its sensuous impact. ‘One,’ she pronounced. ‘May I have another?’

  Alinor obliged, choosing a place slightly above and to the right.

  ‘Two,’ she asserted. ‘May I have another?’

  The third made her cry out, though she’d promised herself she would not do so in front of such an insignificant man. What Alinor did not know and could never understand, was that after being dominated by powerful men such as the Rashal it was a distinct disgrace, a sign of her overwhelming weakness that she could now be controlled by men who possessed not even a tenth of their strength. It would be as if a lioness, having expected to be tamed by a huge whip-wielding man, his hand wrapped round an outstretched chair, found herself instead about to be trained by a circus clown.

  ‘Six,’ she said now, absorbing the newest impact. ‘May I have another?’

  ‘You may,’ he said magnanimously. ‘And afterward, when I am done, you may take my cock inside you, hard between your reddened buttock cheeks.’

  Caralissa groaned, the words crashing into her like the brush. ‘Yes, master,’ she replied, counting the seventh. ‘May I have another?’

  ‘You will remember this night, won’t you, my queen? The night I tore the clothes from your body and did with you exactly as I pleased. The night I made you my slave, a title you shall bear in your heart forever, for my sake, whether or not you regain your throne.’

  ‘Yes, master. Eight. I will remember. May I have another?’

  ‘No,’ he declared, tossing the brush to the floor and pawing at the opening of his leotards. ‘You may not.’

  Caralissa felt his prick poking at her anal opening. Bracing herself as best she could she endured his assault, bittersweet on account of his fingers, which were tantalising her sex, producing juice enough to provide him lubrication. With only moderate effort Alinor managed to sheath himself, stuffing her fully with his throbbing member.

  Clasping her ankles as tightly as she could she yielded to his incessant pumping, allowing him to thrust freely as if he were in her other opening, the more common one. Alinor was breathing fast, his breath coming in low hisses. She was expecting his imminent release but at the last second he pulled out so he could spurt across her back and bottom. His jism was surprisingly thick and abundant, as much as a Rashal warrior’s, in fact.

  Denying her permission to rise, Alinor attended to his cleansing needs, using her torn dress to wipe his glistening organ. When he w
as finished he took the green velvet, thrusting as much of it as he could manage into Caralissa’s mouth.

  ‘Do not move from this position,’ he told her as he tucked himself back into his leotards. ‘Till you have counted to a thousand. And in case you are interested, that number is an approximation of the number of times I took myself in hand seeking my own pleasure in lieu of what you steadfastly refused me all those months.’

  Caralissa glared at her own feet. She was drooling through the makeshift gag, feeling nauseous from the smell of his semen. It wasn’t that it was so malodorous as much as that it represented for her the flavour of her own abasement, the scent of her domination.

  One thousand proved to be a very large number. More than large enough for her to think through in her mind all the nasty implications of her being there, exposed and used, a waiting victim, ready to be caught by the spying eyes of her gaoler. Or maybe it would not only be his eyes he laid upon her, but other things as well, other experiences.

  Alinor was devious, that was for certain. To make a queen do such things, to take her in so bestial a manner, giving her shameful pleasure in the bargain, this was an evil thing, a thing that could lead only to their mutual ruin. And yet she sensed in her heart that this was only the beginning; that a road was opening for her, a way unto submission that would take her both to the depths of her dark desires and to the soaring heights of her fantasies.

  It was a road few dared travel and yet one that she could not now avoid. In many ways she’d traversed a line, a line of decency and order upon which all kingdoms and cities rested. Her name would soon be a curse to her people; of this much she was certain. Keeping herself as quiet as possible, whispering her endless count, she persisted, proving to herself and to the long gone Alinor that she was his slave, if not in perpetuity, at least for the time being.

  Let us hope he keeps his silence, she thought, not daring to face the implications of having the events of this night made known to all, known to those men who might exploit the fact, making her their permanent prisoner, their abject slave. Let us hope Alinor has at least some small scrap of loyalty, some sense of discretion, she told herself.

  When at last Caralissa crawled wearily into bed, the sheets were cool, though the leftover knots from her earlier escape attempt rode across her flesh in disturbing ways. She collapsed at once upon the pillows, her mind taking her to a place of deep and instant numbness. Her final prayer to the goddess was that she would have no dreams, no disturbing fantasies. She needed her reason; she needed to have her wits about her. In the morning she must awaken as a picture of a sober, chaste queen, a disciplined monarch prepared to deal with her detractors, her critics and her enemies.

  Giving a small sigh, barely conscious, she turned, one of the knots gripping between her legs. Inadvertently, as she sought to free herself another coil wrapped round her ankle. It felt like a bond, and that made her think once more of Alinor and his poorly written yet potent poem. Moaning softly, seeking her release, she plunged her hands to her tortured sex then fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The dreams came to Caralissa like storms, the thunder crashing over the peace of her fragile sleep, lightning flashing over the horizon of her sanity. And rains, drenching and arousing, saturating her carefully preserved consciousness.

  Caralissa was moaning. Calling out the name of Varik, running to find him but unable to reach him on account of crowds of men. Senelek and his priests were there along with the soldiers of Varik’s army. And Romila was there too, and Telos and Norod. The scene became a banquet hall. She was to be welcomed home by her people. But when she entered the vast room she saw upon the faces of her subjects expressions of horror and contempt. Looking down, she realised she was naked, though she’d been dressed just a moment before.

  They were laughing at her and her only impulse was to find Varik, to seek comfort in his arms. For she knew he alone would not laugh. Alinor could be heard, in the centre of a huge crowd, noisily explaining his part in the night’s joke, how he convinced the queen to dress in a garment of his own invention, one designed to disappear from the wearer’s skin as soon as she donned it. They were congratulating him, Senelek and Telos and the barbarian guard too, the new one whose name she did not even know.

  Romila, meanwhile, was telling Caralissa it was all her fault and that what she needed to do was to run as fast as she could from the room, out of the castle and across the moat. As soon as the words were spoken they became reality, and she really was running. In an instant she was all the way to the Forest of Night, having covered hundreds of miles of ground. Thinking she would be safe from her pursuers there - the mocking crowds still hot on her trail - she plunged into its murky depths.

  Through the forest she went, though to her great distress she saw that at every turn they were already ahead of her, the laughing pointing people. Faster and faster she went. Her heart was pounding; she was becoming afraid. Behind her she heard heavy breathing, snarling. Over her shoulder she saw a tiger, white and grey, eyes bright red, teeth bared. She tried to call to it, thinking it was Ahzur, but it did not recognise her.

  A few feet further into the forest she stumbled over a branch. There was more laughter as she fell at the feet of Norod and several of the councillors. Telos was there, giving inane descriptions of her wild appearance, her sweat-stained body, the scratches that covered her head to foot. The ground was made of marble and she realised she was back in the castle, in the banquet room. Somehow the tiger was still behind her. From all sides people were gathering, talking to one another, ignoring her. There were too many of them; she couldn’t run away. Everyone was oblivious as she screamed. The tiger was lunging at her, coming straight for her, its claws slashing through the air. Caralissa cried out one last time, shutting her eyes as its weight crushed down upon her.

  She assumed she was dead, but when she opened her dream eyes she was unhurt. The beast was gone and in its place was Telos, a ridiculous mask on his face, that of a purple tiger. Looking at her with a smirk he made a growling sound, in a sarcastic imitation of the animal. She saw she was lying on the floor and above her the conversation was continuing. No one seemed to notice even as Telos unsheathed himself and entered her. When she moved to protest he clamped his hand over her mouth and proceeded to take her by force. To her disgust she found herself aroused, more powerfully than she’d ever before been. Telos was enjoying her predicament, laughing harder and harder. Meanwhile, behind Telos she could see men lining up to take their turns, it was endless, consisting of every man she’d ever known or even laid eyes on.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Telos sneered. ‘Does the queen not wish to serve her subjects?’

  The scene began to dissolve and as Telos’ dream words faded into a dim echo she heard another sound - female, a cry of distress. It was Deelia standing over her, a look of grave concern on her face. She did not know what was wrong, but when she followed Deelia’s eyes and looked down to her own person, she realised what it was. She was awake in her own bed and Deelia was looking at her actual self, in utter disbelief.

  Caralissa’s hand was between her legs. In her sleep, unwittingly, she had been pleasuring herself. Quickly she sought to hide the evidence, pulling the damp sheets up around her. It was of course no crime to masturbate oneself, but it was hardly proper for a queen to do so, least of all on the morning of her trial to determine her moral fitness to rule.

  ‘It’s all right, Deelia,’ she reassured, but as she looked beyond the woman’s shoulder she realised it was not all right, for Deelia was not alone. In her company was the stone-faced warrior, the blond fellow with the silver breastplate and the penetrating eyes. How long had he been watching?

  It was the warrior who spoke next. ‘Leave us,’ he said to the already harried maid. ‘I shall tend to the queen’s preparations this morning.’

  Deelia cast a worried look to Caralissa.

  ‘You may go, Deelia,�
�� she said, gathering the sheet at her throat and sitting up to face her new opponent. ‘I will be fine.’

  After the maid left she addressed the warrior directly. ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ she demanded, seeking to put him in his place.

  Saying nothing the man stepped forward, grabbed the sheet and pulled it from her, leaving her naked on the bed.

  ‘How dare you!’ she cried, covering herself as best she could with her hands.

  ‘You were not alone last night, were you?’ he said, phrasing his words as a statement and not a question.

  Caralissa’s cheeks reddened. ‘That is none of your business!’

  ‘It is when I am charged with your protection.’

  ‘Protection?’ she snorted. ‘How is this protecting me? I am locked in my room. I have no privacy. My own throne is taken from me.’

  ‘That is not my concern,’ he said. ‘I do as I am charged to do.’

  ‘Oh?’ she challenged, tossing her dishevelled curls indignantly. ‘And what are you charged to do with me now, oh brave and fearless warrior?’

  ‘I am to bathe you, dress you and bring you to breakfast.’

  Caralissa shrieked as he scooped her from the bed, gathering her in his arms.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she wailed, trying to squirm free. ‘You beast!’

  ‘My name is Trajor,’ he said, carrying her to the waiting bath and depositing her unceremoniously into the warm water.

  ‘I do not care what your name is,’ she told him as she tried to climb out again. ‘As far as I am concerned you are a beast and nothing more.’

  Trajor shoved her back down. ‘You will clean yourself,’ he said, handing her the dry sponge. ‘Or I will do it for you.’

  ‘Touch me and die,’ she hissed, snatching the crusty brown object and plunging it into the water.

  Petulantly she dabbed at her skin. Hugging her breasts, which rose just above the line of the water, and clamping her legs, she decided to make it as unpleasant as possible for the warrior. There was no way she’d allow the man to dominate her. If he thought himself her equal he was sorely mistaken.