Possessing Allura (22 page)

‘Should we not leave them to the dungeon keeper?' asked Rodolfo, with some trepidation.

‘No, you sniveling worm, we'll handle these bitches ourselves, the old-fashioned way. That is unless you're too frightened of their female witchcraft?'

‘No sir,' said he, ‘I have no fear.'

The baron grabbed the red locks of the priestess and hauled her to her feet. ‘We shall see, Rodolfo, all too soon, who is a true man and who is not.'

Allura's sense of foreboding was acute, the threat of the dungeon filling her with dread.

The three females were roughly manhandled below and taken directly to the dungeon keeper's macabre cell, where he kept his favorite implements. The old man was absent for the moment, so the baron ordered the priestess hung immediately from the shackles in the center of the gloomy room.

A few minutes later the dungeon keeper arrived and more torches were lit. He made a thorough examination of his new resident, saying not a word to Montreico until he was done. ‘Well you've let me in for it this time, haven't you?' he grumbled.

‘Relax, you've nothing to fear,' Montreico drawled. ‘This is just another little bitch for us to beat into submission.'

‘Ever seen the likes of this before?' the wizened man croaked hoarsely, and the baron approached the body of the hanging female; that splendid pale creature with flaming red hair, a priestess who until yesterday had never been outside the temple in her entire life, but the fact that she was now suspended on tiptoes, wrists in shackles in the dungeon of a baron, seemed to mark little distress in her countenance.

Holding the torch close to her bottom, the baron examined the tiny mark between the cleft of her cheeks. Allura, who knelt nearby in the filthy straw along with Saraveeta, had a perfectly clear view. It was a circle, with three wings projecting from the center – the mark of the sky god, the father of the heavens. ‘It's a tattoo, so what?' he challenged.

‘No tattoo artist I know can do this.' The keeper smacked her buttocks, instantly turning the skin red, then the mark turned a bright gold, reflecting as though the woman had some light inside her shining through.

‘Don't bother me with trifles,' the baron said impatiently. ‘Just give me the whip.'

‘Baron, you are about to whip the property of a god,' the keeper warned, but the baron snatched the long whip that Allura knew so well from the man's clawed fingers. ‘She is in my dungeon, which makes her my property. And you two,' he pointed to Allura and Saraveeta, ‘you are next, so take heed.'

The baron moved behind the priestess and unfurled the threatening whip. He seemed as skilled with it as the dungeon keeper, if not more so, and leaning his body into the swing the first slash landed cleanly, the flawless flesh of the priestess bruising and reddening at once, like an angry claw had torn down her back.

‘Now you will tell the truth,' declared Montreico as he lashed her over and over, her ass and back and thighs. ‘You are nothing, do you hear me? A whipped slave is all you are, so confess it!'

The woman's breathing had grown ragged and tight and she rolled back her head, her expression one of concentration, and she looked at Allura as if she were going into some kind of trance.

‘Confess, damn you!' he roared, but no amount of whipping seemed to matter.

‘This will not work!' shouted the dungeon keeper. ‘With every lash you only beg greater disaster to befall us all!'

‘I will not be questioned. I will not be disobeyed.' The baron tossed the whip aside. ‘I will find another way.'

Releasing the woman from her bonds he laid her on her back. ‘Let's see if we can do something about this virginity, shall we?'

She had no strength to resist him, and pulling apart her legs he penetrated her brutally with one shunt of his hips. He hadn't even bothered to remove his breeches.

‘She's good and wet,' he reported, ‘just like any other slut. There's your horrible witch,' he mocked the others. ‘I'll bet she's fucked a dozen priests and temple servants if she's fucked one. Haven't you? Go on; keep your eyes closed, little bitch. Dream of your fake Zuranos and his huge balls and three foot tongue.'

‘Father of heaven,' the dungeon keeper fell to his knees, ‘forgive him. He knows not what he says. He is an ignorant, dunderheaded whelp, and has been so all his life. Would that my mother and I had fed him to the wolves as the auger advised.'

‘Shut up, father,' snarled the baron, ‘or I shall have you impaled.'

‘So you are the true baron!' Allura exclaimed to the twisted old man.

‘I was, but I got tired of all the responsibility,' he answered. ‘I like it much better down here. Unfortunately I didn't have anyone else to turn things over to but this incompetent son of mine.'

‘Go to the demons, all of you,' grunted Montreico as he spilt his seed into the priestess' womb, his buttocks clenched and quivering.

The priestess was lying inert. She hadn't opened her eyes the whole time and Allura was scared she was dead. Apparently Montreico was too, because he was trying to rouse her.

‘Look at me, bitch, acknowledge your new master.'

The priestess stirred slightly and her eyes opened, as she reached for the baron's throat. Allura thought the grasp would be feeble, but as she squeezed Montreico began to gasp for air. ‘No,' the priestess countered, employing a voice not her own, ‘you look at me.'

Her eyes were red as fire, the voice a low growl, sharpened by raw cruelty. Her body shimmered and Allura saw the priestess now as she had in the great hall when first the baron stripped her naked. Montreico was trying to pull himself free but she was holding him fast. Cries of distress came from the back of his throat, scarcely human, indecipherable in their fear and panic. Allura shielded her eyes against the visions, the accumulated pain being unleashed upon the man; the compounded suffering that had taken place in the dungeon, year after year, a huge psychic ball that the baron must now swallow.

Allura almost felt pity for him. He had his good side, and she had felt strongly for him at one time. But there were lines no mortal was allowed to cross. The shuddering of his body continued. Arcs of blue light passed between his cock and her invaded sex. He was being sucked dry of life, flames devouring his flesh. When at last the light faded there was nothing left upon the body of the priestess but shadowy wafts of smoke. Baron Montreico was no more.

‘My son,' cried the dungeon keeper, ‘where has he gone?'

‘Where he belongs,' said Saraveeta, rising to her feet.

Allura ran to the priestess. The woman lay as if dead, her wrists twisted over her head, her legs still wide like a rag doll.

‘There is nothing you can do for her, Allura; there is nothing any of you can do,' said Saraveeta.

Allura watched as her old friend knelt over the inert redhead. Gently she caressed the priestess' cheek and brushed the hair from her face. ‘Isn't she lovely?' Saraveeta whispered.

‘Yes,' agreed Allura.

‘One last kiss,' declared Saraveeta, ‘and it will be done.'

‘What will be done?' demanded Allura, tired of not knowing. ‘What is happening? Are you really the princess? Have the gods spoken this to you?'

‘The gods speak to all of us, Allura, if we listen.'

‘I hear nothing. I never have.'

‘It's all right, neither did I until I first laid eyes upon this dear woman. Now it all makes sense.'

‘What does? Explain, Saraveeta.'

‘Later. First the kiss; the kiss of sweet sleep, long deserved.'

‘Yes,' murmured the red-haired priestess, her ruby lips dry and cracked.

Saraveeta wet her own and leaned closer, her sleek dark hair falling over the other female's face and mixing with her hair of copper. The touch of their lips was so sweet and desire filled, Allura felt the pull in her own body, their passion radiating outward, wiping over the princess like a warm wave, a blanket to cover her consciousness, a dream in physical form, wanting inside her, between her thighs and in her mind to bestow a gift unspeakable.

She could hardly keep her eyes open, and the next thing she knew Saraveeta was above her, lifting her into her arms. ‘The priestess,' Allura whispered.

‘She is dead,' smiled Saraveeta, ‘and I have taken her place.'

A thousand questions raced through Allura's mind, but she was in no position to ask even one. ‘Hold me,' she said to her friend. ‘Hold me tight.'

 

 

 

 

The Grand Duke Fortragian entered the hall to the sound of trumpets. It was much as the time before save that the old baron was now gone. In his place, to greet him, was the former baron, the onetime keeper of the dungeon, muchly scrubbed and richly garbed, though still unshaven.

‘Baron Alexo,' the grand duke clasped his hand, the grip of both men strong and vigorous, ‘we had assumed you dead.'

‘I preferred it that way; as you know the pressures of nobility can become a bit overwhelming at times.'

‘Of course.' He turned to Allura who was dressed in white, her hair coiled upon her head. She wore the crown of a princess, though more than likely she would be yielding it in just a few moments. ‘My niece, you are more lovely than ever.'

‘Thank you, uncle.' She curtsied humbly, mindful that she was already more slave than free.

‘The great lady shall attend us presently?' the grand duke asked. They referred, of course, not to the old priestess but to the new one, she who had been Saraveeta, mere mortal, mere slave.

‘Indeed.' The old baron frowned. ‘As you know, we are here by her command. I myself had no wish to leave my dark home.'

‘Yes, Alexo, I do marvel at that, how a man can grow accustomed to the absence of light, to the dampness and to the perpetual misery.'

‘It was at times a bit bothersome,' he confessed, ‘but where else than in a dungeon – that most delicious place of captivity and isolation – can one exercise such full and perfect power over a female? They are such marvelous creatures to be explored, my friend, so resilient and strong and yet so vulnerable. One may break them again and again finding ever lower levels of degradation. Their suffering redeemed me. I was blessed to feel and know their pain, and to bathe in their tears. This one's included.'

Allura lowered her eyes at the man's reference to her three days in his charge. It shamed her to hear such talk in front of her uncle, but the say was no longer hers. It had already been established that she was not the real princess. The augers had been taken three times, each time pointing to Saraveeta. On top of this a slave had been found, a servant of Saraveeta's family from many years ago who had confirmed the entire story, down to the last detail.

The queen had died giving birth to Saraveeta. The switch was made in dead of night, with much weeping on the part of Allura's natural parents, but under pain of sword they were forbidden to reveal the secret to anyone. Over the years they came to love their new child just as well, though it pained them no end to see Saraveeta so mistreated by the false princess. This was, Allura suspected, in part the reason they had left the kingdom, leaving behind no inheritance.

Which meant that Allura had nothing for her legacy but her own crime of harlotry – harlotry to a man who could no longer redeem her. Slavery was her only option, and being a slut, according to her uncle – who continued to call her niece only out of kindness – had cost her the right to an honorable death, the other possible sentence. Already the former princess would have been on some auction block, save that Saraveeta had ordered her appearance in this place, in the company of the ladies and lords of the realm.

‘Yes, I understand; Montreico sentenced her to time in the dungeon,' said the grand duke, as though she were not in the room.

‘Though my miserable killjoy of a son sent her down with the iron belt,' the old man lamented. ‘Still, we had fun, didn't we?'

Allura nodded, unable to speak.

‘When this is over,' the old baron whispered in her ear, ‘I am going to feed my cock deep into your mouth.'

She felt the familiar flood between her legs, even as the grand duke excused himself to go and speak with another of his old friends. ‘I fear he heard you,' lamented Allura.

The baron pinched her buttock, with all the practiced cruelty of a veteran torturer. ‘What of it? You won't have any secrets for long. And don't think you'll hide that pretty cunt this time. I intend to thoroughly invade it.'

She tried to squirm away from the grip of the man, a full two inches shorter than her and thinner by twenty pounds. Where was her power now, her ability to egg him on and outdo his sadism with her own masochism? ‘Please, baron, not here.'

‘It's harder up here, isn't it? When you have a name and station.' He grabbed a nipple through her dress. ‘Hard when people know who you are. Downstairs a different part of us takes over. The beast part, but it links to something higher, too, doesn't it? That's what makes us humans the go betweens, halfway between animal and god.'