The Surrender of Lady Charlotte (2 page)

The Doctor remained between her legs as the four fellows commandeering the young woman heaved her to the very end of the table, so her ass was almost falling off the edge. Parted wider still, her hips were lifted so the proper inspection could begin. Tibor thrust with fingers that poked here and there, and spent some time stroking the delicate hymen guarding this virgin’s vital path.

“She appears intact,” he finally lifted his head and announced. “And a most suitable specimen to present to our grace. He will be glad to note that her genitals were made with the idea of breeding lust. Fully flowered, her lips swell even as she struggles against us. The bud between these plump lips,” he said as he squeezed her fat labia, “is engorged with blood. A very good sign.” He stared at her pained face, himself grinning. “Humph, how she gives herself away.”

The company nodded on hearing the Doctor’s decree, while the smile on Harrow’s thin lips transformed his mouth into a lecherous sneer. “I should be so lucky to have one as ripened as this one.”

“You should be so lucky as to have one at all,” the doctor declared. “The belt and harness please.”

This comment caused the now withering beauty to take note. Turning her head square, her eyes shot open as another indignity was thrust on her. A belt of smooth metal was affixed around her waist and locked with a clasp. Henceforth, a chastity girdle was then attached to the waist belt; the entire device cinched tight and secured with a tiny padlock. This thicker metal split her cleft apart in a way designed to ensure that no man—nor Charlotte’s own hand—could have access to the delicate flesh of her proven virginity. While the chastity belt allowed for her natural bodily functions, that was all the freedom she would have in her nether regions. Save being transported by eunuchs, she was safe from rape, lust and her own probing while on her journey to her new home. The disconsolate young woman gazed on her audience, her expression replete with fear and the painful degradation this clumsy apparatus afforded her.

“You’ll come to hunger for the feel of this garment, slave,” Harrow declared in a voice rife with mockery. “I’m told this fits like the clouds of heaven compared to the crude devices that will follow.”

Unable to contain her rage, Charlotte spit in the old man’s wrinkled face as he lowered his visage to glower more.

He retorted, slapping her cheek brusquely. “Bring her father back here now!” The old man stomped away, grumbling under his breath.

On her feet again, Charlotte’s dress covered her embarrassing attire—though the physical effect of this bondage made it seem as though she were nakedly exposing the vile chastity belt. The result was alarming when she moved even the slightest bit. How would she walk? Or sleep? Or sit inside this miserable thing?

“Oh, my father, what have you done to me!” she exclaimed, as Sir Malcolm moved back inside the room while his keen eyes cast a reproving glance her way.

“Your examination has been successful?” he inquired of the entourage.

“Indeed,” Doctor Tibor acknowledged.

“But too much spunk!” Harrow immediately chimed in. “She should be punished now for her insolence.”

“Father, please!” Charlotte moved awkwardly toward her father, though he kept her at arm’s length.

“Accept your fate, fair one. I have given you all I can for these eighteen years—you’ve enjoyed the fruits of my labor, lived in this luxury, sucked life from this bounteous land. But now, it is time… your service to me begins from this day.” His arm swept wide acknowledging the waiting assemblage. “These men are not here to squash your spirit, or tread on your freedom. Their Lord Mountbane is not a monster to fear, but a husband to love and cherish as I once did your sweet mother. Your life will change, my darling daughter, but think it not some horror, instead an adventure.” His eyebrows raised and his complexion flushed as his lofty words inspired him, while his fellows appraised his speech with amusement in their hearts. Certainly Castile was not so daft as to believe this babble… perhaps it was just the wishful thinking of a foolish father, or the machinations of a cunning one who’d try to sway the listeners. They would hear this twaddle and joke on it by nightfall when they made camp. “Charlotte, Charlotte,” Sir Malcolm’s emotions rose in the face of his daughter’s grimacing countenance, “you will accept. And trust me, as you do accept this change, your life will find some peace, I swear.”

“And do you swear as well that you’ll come claim me if I should hate this place, Ilusia?”

He shook his head condescendingly, taking her into his arms for a last fatherly gesture of affection. Once kissing her fair cheeks, he pushed her off. “Gentlemen, please be gone. Though I rejoice in the outcome, this is a sad day for me.” He held his fist to his heart, a single tear about to fall from his one damp eye—the other eye was sharply focused on old Harrow.

“Yes. Best not belabor this day,” the fellow glowered miserably. With a rude jerk, his bony hand grabbed for Charlotte.

She instantly shook him off, saying, “If this is my fate, I will attend it on my own accord. You certainly don’t need to abduct me.”

“Mind yourself, daughter of Castile,” Harrow started in, but one of his fellow nobles moved forward to interrupt.

“We have a long journey ahead. I’m sure we’ll all be glad to quit this place as soon as we can garner a decent meal.”

d

The first afternoon of Charlotte’s new life might have been spent pleasantly. The day proved sumptuously temperate—with blue sky, the hint of a southerly breeze, and traces of honeysuckle blossoms in the air. It might have been a welcome journey considering the young maid’s fearless sense of adventure, but every second of the trek was destined to be met with discomfort. The mean cart that bore her from her father’s home jostled against the ruts and valleys of the rude and rarely used road. With each jarring bump the metal girdle fused to Charlotte’s body cut into her flesh. There was not one comfortable position on the hard wood bench. Her rough predicament was made worse seeing the expressions on the faces of her captors. They seemed to hold her in contempt mixed with a leering lust. Perhaps Mountbane was wise to insist on this chastity belt considering their obvious fascination with her.

Listening to the quiet conversation among them, she learned that there was a single key to the device that protected her groin, that key in Mountbane’s keep, many miles from them now. Though that key seemed a symbol of her freedom, she feared what that freedom might mean—or if there would be any freedom at all. Harrow’s comments about the “other” devices would haunt her every moment of the trip.

When she wasn’t thinking of her future in Ilusia—as if she could actually piece together a decent picture of that reality—she thought of escape. All wishfully, of course. They hardly needed to bind her more; running seemed nearly impossible in this miserable belt, though she hadn’t been given the opportunity to try. Walking was difficult enough. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to traverse this uncivil landscape. But escape was never far from her thoughts. Perhaps in the dead of night, when they were sleeping—perhaps then, she mused.

The company stopped for the night at a small forest encampment in the heart of Ilusia’s wilds. Some time during the day they’d crossed the border, though Charlotte’s companions gave her no clue when this occurred. The air seemed pleasant, the sky as blue, the sun as bold, and her heart as empty from the beginning of the journey until the incessant bump, jolt and grind of the wagon ceased for the day.

Taken into the woods, she was given the opportunity to relieve herself. A messy task it was, and an embarrassing one as well, with one of Mountbane’s beastly henchmen attending her. By that time, however, she was so in need of release that she forgot herself as a gentlewoman and completed the job quickly.

Back inside the camp, she was given food and drink, and shown where she would sleep for the night.

“Would it be all right if I took a short walk,” she asked Harrow, politely.

“And why?”

“To stretch my legs.”

“I’d think you’d find the prospect difficult?” he eyed her with the same obscene amusement he’d shown her all day.

“I need to move about.”

“I’ll take her,” one of Mountbane’s noblemen announced. Coming to her side, the man gently took her arm.

This one was named Tristan, so her careful observations told her. He was the one who held her during the awful inspection; and though she’d not noted any faces during that sad hour, she noted now that he seemed more amiable than his companions did. And certainly, he was the most comely of the group. His stance was fierce, though it generated a power that lured her sex in an amazing fashion. A strong face, well-cut jaw, keen dark eyes and artful brows could hold her fascinated if she were inclined to gaze on him—which she wasn’t for fear she’d give her feelings away. Perhaps, however, it was the kindness in his eyes that tempted her most—something that he only briefly offered her. And yet, when he did, he wore the kindness well as though it were a natural trait. A rare man, indeed, to be both immovable and vibrantly carnal, as well as temperate with a frightened woman.

“Your father has either misread the truth, or lied to you about his knowledge of Ilusia.” These were his first words directed to her. The two strolled as pleasantly as they could along the side of a small brook of clear water. No, it was not easy to walk, but it was pure bliss to be away from Harrow and the surly animals in this band of strangers.

“He has, sir?”

“I am afraid so.”

“In what way?” she wondered.

“Your place in Ilusia as a woman is likely to be far different than you anticipate.”

“Why would you tell me this now?”

“A warning, miss. Be on your guard. Your father is right to say your life will change. Truly, its pleasures and its pains will be of a different sort than what you know in your homeland. Though we live quite close in distance, our customs are exceedingly contrary.”

“I see. And how does a woman of Ilusia conduct herself?”

“Submissively. I’d advise you to be compliant, observant, and resourceful. And guard against your shrewishness. That trait is not looked on favorably within our borders.”

“I will take your council, sir, and remember it well.”

The moon over Ilusia was fully round, glowing yellow at this dark time of night. With the sun set, the sky was inky black, dotted with a million stars all ominously appearing before her eyes, suggesting that the constellations might be aligned toward an uncertain mischief that would test her in ways she could not even fathom now.

“Thank you,” she added, feeling oddly nurtured by this distant soul. His manner had been straightforward and respectful, but without any obvious warmth. Though, the very fact that he’d say anything at all suggested some affection, or perhaps pity. Perhaps it was nothing at all, just this stranger, Tristan’s way.

There were two more days of grueling passage before the company of seven reached the gates of Mountbane’s lair—a stately castle: grey and important, rising so high above the maid Charlotte that for the foggy gleam of morning air, she could not make out the tallest spire.

Inside the gates, Mountbane’s bride gazed on sights she’d never witnessed before. Surely, the nobleman Tristan was right. Seeing collared women wherever she turned, others tethered by their masters, led on leashes through the market, she shuddered nervously wondering if these were signs of things to come. This was not her homeland—no
home
at all, she thought sadly.

“My, my, aren’t you a lovely thing. All fresh washed. Did they remove that dastardly chastity belt?”

“Only so I could pee, sir. And to wash, of course. And who are you?” She eyed the splendid man with some degree of interest. His brown hair flowed to his shoulders and his beard was trimmed, not scraggly like so many men she’d seen in Ilusia so far. A pair of sharp, cinnamon-hued eyes peered at her from under his cunningly arched brows. He was a lean man of average stature, and though his clothes were unremarkable—leather britches and a simple muslin shirt—he wore his body, and his attitude, and even his humble attire with some suggestion of nobility.

He eyed the flaxen-haired maid with a degree of deference, slight as it might be. And yes, there was that haughtiness in his aspect she’d come to expect from Ilusian men. He was a bit of a scoundrel, Charlotte decided.

“Ah, yes, we haven’t been introduced, have we?” he was reminded.

“No, sir. I was led to this room with no explanation. In fact, I’ve had no explanations of anything. No answers to my questions. I’ve been forced to remain in a paltry room, in this frightful chastity belt for two days with no company at all.” She stopped her strident complaint abruptly, asking again, “So, who are you?”

“I was told you were impertinent, and so you are. Quite so.” He chuckled. “But that will change.”

Charlotte took offense at that remark. “I am myself and will always be so, no matter how you or anyone else attempts to mold me.”

The fellow stroked his chin thoughtfully, pacing about the wondering woman as Charlotte followed him with her eye, finally turning herself.

“I am your husband, Mountbane,” he finally announced.

She was speechless. Eyes, ears, mouth, feet—aye, even her heart, frozen.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mountbane quipped. “It seemed to wag so easily these last days.”

“I thought you…”

“Older. I’m sure that you imagined me some wizened fool like Harrow, or perhaps a man of your father’s years, or even some brutish boor. I am, dear Charlotte, just ten years your senior; and I assure you, my bride…”

“I am not your bride! I have made no vows, nor will I,” she thawed instantly, stamping her foot in a hot rage.

Mountbane laughed while she remained nearly in tears from frustration.

When he finally calmed, his voice had lost its mockery and was quite courteous, “I’m afraid you’ve been mislead. Once you left your homeland and crossed our borders, an agreement that was signed days after your birth became fully executed. That agreement between your father and mine was signed with blood, binding you and me in a political marriage.”

“That is not true!” she exclaimed unhappily.

“You may check the documents, you know your father’s signature?”

“I do.”

“Then you can inspect them yourself.”

“Why would my father do such a thing?”

“To save himself,” Mountbane’s speech turned disdainful.

She closed her eyes to close him out, while he remained before her, the two wrapped inside a breathless quiet. Not even the mice inside the castle scurried the floors at this thorny moment. When Charlotte’s eyes popped open, she stared into Mountbane’s in perplexed wonder. “Why would
you
agree to such a marriage, sir?”

He smiled. “Because, Charlotte Castile, my spies have been gazing on you for several years, and finding you a pleasing female specimen, they suggested that I would enjoy your flesh.”

“My flesh and nothing more? Is that all there is to marriage in Ilusia—locked loins and fornication?”

“Hardly. It is gracious servitude for its women and contentment for its men.”

“And you would seek some contentment from me?”

He caught her joke, grinning, though his expression quickly turned grim. “Properly trained, daughter of Castile, you will serve me.”

“Never,” she turned her back on him.

“All this was written years ago,” he spoke plainly. “You can accept it now, or later. If you’re determined to fight me, so be it. But I am determined to win, and so I will. I like you. And even more, I fancy what my metal harness hides between your thighs—the warm fresh dew, the grasping muscle of your channel—and indeed, the puckering rear entrance that will soon gape with desire and drip with my seed.”

“Oh, how you disgust me,” she pulled back horrified.

“Disgust is only a creature of desire, my dear bride.”

“I will not desire you! And I am not your bride!” She turned around to make her point face to face.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. You already are my bride. Women do not consent, allow, or agree to anything in Ilusia. They submissively accept their status and obey.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged. “Then they are trained to do so.”

“And if not then?”

“There is no alternative,” he replied. Charlotte fixed her eye on him, unwilling to bend, while Mountbane for just a moment seemed truly perplexed. “Am I so ugly that you’re repulsed?” he asked.

“Nay. You aren’t ugly at all. Some women might find you genuinely handsome. But trust me, Lord Mountbane, I cannot look on you with lust, and there will be no love in my heart! I shall never love you!” She was distraught and unwilling to give an inch in her battle.

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as though this was some great dilemma for the man. “Perhaps not love. I never expected that. But you will serve me.”

“Hah!”

He snickered and turned away saying to no one, “I fear Caius will have his work ahead of him with my snappish shrew.”

She recalled Tristan’s words, advising her to guard against her shrewishness. But that advice seemed to sway her little now.

Mountbane moved to the door of his chambers. “Gregor!” He bellowed.

A flushed youth raced to his master’s side, “Yes, sir?”

“Bring me Caius.”

“Yes, sir.” He was gone.

The air inside the chamber grew hotly tense. Charlotte remained on her feet in the center of the room, nervously fidgeting with her skirts. At moments when she wasn’t noticed, she would glance at the great bed on the far side of Mountbane’s chamber, wondering—until she forcibly stopped the picture—what it might be like to lose herself inside the great velvet quilts, in the arms of this handsome man. Could it be desire beating in her heart and more horribly between her legs where she could feel the chastity belt as though it were a pair of firm hands grasping her flesh?

When the ethers in the room finally stirred again, it was from the entrance of a burly brute—one much like the two fellows who took her from her father’s house. Yet, this one seemed taller still and more commanding in his presence. The hulking fellow wore leather trousers as the others had, though his torso was clothed in a dark muslin shirt and his beard was freshly trimmed, his head shaved and smooth as a still lake.

Mountbane moved toward his wary bride with a contemptuous snarl curling on his lips. “You understand, I could rape you now,” he said in a voice that wrapped about her with a wintry blast of wind. “I could have my aides hold you down while I rip your virginity from you.” He shook his head. “But that is not my way, fair madam. You will beg for me…”

Her face registered an earnest denial but she didn’t speak, being much too scared to utter a word.

He turned away. “Caius, take my bride into the bowels of my castle and prepare her for me.”

“And shall I prime her first, sir?”

“Yes. Thoroughly. I’ll take her when she’s well spent. Perhaps she’ll be more willing then.”

“Tis likely I’ll be having her for some time?” the great brute observed aloud.

“Oh, yes. She’ll need to be fully trained in the ways of Ilusian women. Take her now.” With his final retort, Mountbane brushed her off as he would a speck of dust from his sleeve. And Charlotte quit the room, towed by the rigid grip of Caius’ hand on her arm.