The Surrender of Lady Charlotte (4 page)

In the days that followed her initiation in the dungeon, Charlotte was a petulant and shrewish slave, regularly punished for her misdeeds and often gagged for hours for her reckless tongue. Her ass took the brunt of abuse, being bitten by paddle, leather slappers and thin cutting switches as often as she disobeyed or showed her captor a less than compliant attitude. She was not made for such subservience, she was certain, but there was no one who agreed with her. Women in Ilusia had few rights—only those they might earn as compliant wives—and she was neither a happy nor a willing wife who could beguile a horny husband and so gain something for herself.

To ensure her complete abasement, Charlotte’s hands were bound behind her when she was fed, which forced her to lap food from her plate like a dog. She was kept in a cell, where she couldn’t stand, but only lie or sit uncomfortably crouched. And to take care of her private needs, she was forced to relieve herself in a chamber pot, which Caius placed in the center of the dungeon so all could see her private ritual turned into a humiliating exhibition. For the first weeks of her trial, these stiff measures did little but anger the headstrong Charlotte. She would not be broken—so she resolved.

Despite her great determination, there was a strange haunting in her heart and belly, something deeply unsettling that she could not explain. Her initial flogging in the dungeon had left her sexually breathless, with a fire inside her groin that had not died. This knowledge of her hidden character would not leave her. Her body had betrayed her in that disturbing incident; her reason tossed aside as so much wasted dust. She could ignore that moment as a clutter of senseless feelings and images, which converging on her all at once, played havoc with her sanity. Such an explanation seemed sound enough; but then, she knew it simply wasn’t true.

Late one evening, when Slave Charlotte thought herself bedded for the night, Caius came to her cell, unlocking the door and pulling her into a corridor, which led to the dungeon stairs. It had been nearly a month since she’d surfaced in the common world. So used to her dim subterranean home, the brightly torch-lit halls of Mountbane’s castle assaulted her eyes, nearly blinding her sight until she could adjust to the glare. She was made to crawl on her hands and knees, led along by a leash, tugged when she was prone to hesitate. Where she’d become accustomed to the naked world of Caius’ dungeon, her swift and unexpected appearance in this presumably more civil climate renewed her embarrassment.

Her shame became more real than ever, when she was forced into a dining hall filled with drunken revelers. Mountbane sat at the center of a circular table, flanked on either side by fondling slaves. Dressed as whores—in the fashion of the times—their sprite looking costumes left little for the hungering eyes of a lust-driven man to imagine. Each wore a halter of such flimsy cloth that their breasts spilled freely, leaving naked nipples popping out with every move. Next to Mountbane’s face, this Lord of Ilusia had only to turn his head in order to suckle at one pert nipple or another. In the space of Charlotte’s first shocking sixty seconds in the brothel atmosphere, her would-be husband turned one of his slave tarts over his lap; and where her skirt was cut apart, he bared her fat behind and spanked it red, while the laughing beauty giggled and tittered through the raunchy circus. She was immediately pressed into service at her master’s crotch. Pushed to her knees, she buried his prick inside her mouth, suckling it as avidly as he’d sucked her tits. Meanwhile, the master’s second whore coiled her way about his face with hands and mouth as he reached inside her skirt and played with the wet snatch at the apex of her thighs. The scenes on either side of Mountbane reflected the master’s licentious activity. Slave/whores, gentlemen and dapper aristocrats were almost screwing on the tables. One randy cunt was impaled by Sir Ellemore’s fat purple prick as the old gent clutched her disheveled hair in his fist, and rode her like a horse. She bellowed almost as obnoxiously as a fucked animal, though the sound only made sense in the brawling theatre of lecherous pleasure.

Charlotte had only seconds to appraise the rude affair before she was lifted to a standing rack, her manacled limbs tied to the four corners so she was spread wide in the shape of an X, forced to face the rowdy entertainment. To pretend she wasn’t there, she closed her eyes, thinking this her best defense against her defenseless plight. And yet, her small moment of comfort was quickly dashed as the sound of Mountbane’s voice rose above the mirth.

The bound young woman opened her eyes to see her husband’s sneer, and then a false face of concern as he withdrew from his harlots, rose to his feet, and sauntered around the table to where Charlotte hung bound.

“My, my, my, what have we here?” he stared in her eyes to gloat, then turned to his friends, “I would have preferred to present my bride in the usual manner, kind sirs, but it seems that she wishes to take a more circuitous route to surrender. I thought we might help her this evening.” Turning back, he nestled the key inside the lock of her chastity belt and freed her of the device—an act so rare now, she felt more naked than ever without the restraint.

His inebriated company began to shout their tributes.

“Why, Lord, you’ve made her bald!”

“But does she not retain that natural beauty?”

“Ah, see how she blushes.”

“You say she has no appreciation of her status?”

They were intrigued enough by the lovely ornament of virginity before them, that for a time, the masters abandoned their slaves, attending to their Lord’s theatrics.

“You say she’s shrewish, I say she deserves the cane to her plump cheeks.”

“Perhaps more pain and less indulgence.”

“A reaming of her ass with cleansing spirits.”

“More abuse to her nipples—see how they swell as if they beg defilement.”

“A greater degradation.”

“A misery of body and soul.”

The offers came fast from this sincere crowd of drunks.

“Or, perhaps, by wit and chicanery she’ll be conquered,” Mountbane suggested the alternative—seeming far more sane in his speech than the others did. “Come, Tristan. Help me now.”

“To what end, milord?” his counselor asked. Eyes lit, dark brows arching, Tristan rose, joining his sovereign before the room. Something reverberated from this man—as though the very earth at his feet rumbled from the energy of mystery embedded in his character. He stared into Charlotte’s eyes as if he were reminding the wench of the advice she’d shunned. He seemed determined now to punish her with his power to manipulate her body.

“Tease her as you wish,” Mountbane said. Those words inspired the dark knight to darker ends.

While the noble-born Tristan stared Charlotte down, his hands grazed the surface of her breasts and belly with such a delicate touch that she was trembling miserably in her efforts to turn away her arousal. Such delicacy was made of iron—with a will immovable, like Mountbane’s—though Tristan’s less quixotic and more enduring. She could not hold out with this abuse of her desires, but she would try. Each gesture made her body start—which seemed a hundred times taken to another level of need. Fingers probing girlish spaces, pinching lush folds of skin—tugging, rubbing, twisting bits of flesh, her reaction could not remain subdued. Perspiration burst on her brow, then in a wave moved downward so every pour emitted wet lust. With tension mounting at a fevered pace, she begged her body to end this torment and, so, closed her eyes.

Tristan’s hand moved immediately to her chin, tugging it around so that her eyes shot open forced on his, as his clipped nails dug into her flesh. “Don’t you dare shut me out, slave!”

“Yes, sir,” she meekly mouthed.

“Better,” he noted her more acquiescent tone as he continued his gentle torment of her flesh.

Mountbane was behind her now with his fingers moving along the cleft of her behind, finding the untried portal of her ass and rimming the sensitive tissue into a more obscene sort of pleasure than she’d ever known. And this before the luring eyes of the besotted throng. They shot off obscenities she tried to ignore, but she found ignoring made them stick with her more surely, like flies to honey.

“Take ‘err ass!”

“Fuck her, she’s your wife!”

“How about her mouth. Bring her down, Mountbane, I’ll stuff my cock…”

“Too much pleasure,” someone shouted above the others; though he was shouted down by another voice proclaiming, “Have her in steel claws!”

She needed none of that. Her attending masters put her at the edge of climax twice, and backing off, then proceeded a third time making her wrench orgasmically, until nary but a single touch would propel her into ecstasy.

A moment too soon, the bound young slave felt Mountbane withdraw. Then she watched in horror as Tristan backed away as well, saying with the polite deference one gives to the lofty, “It is not my right to allow you this, milady.” He bowed and took his seat at the table again.

“Lena, Jontile,” Mountbane called his whores to him. “Take her to a finish with your mouths so we can all see the expression of wonder on her face as she makes a liar of herself.”

The twin lovelies dropped to the floor on either side of the rack-bound slave. The brown beauty, Jontile, opened a proud pair of labial lips in front to find the tumescent pistil of Charlotte’s sex. Covering the sliver of engorged flesh, she drew it into her mouth, running circles around it with her tongue until Charlotte panted anxiously. Her chest heaved so greatly that her tits bounced in frantic circles. From behind, the gentle, fair-skinned Lena parted her tail end to find her rectum’s imperious door. She slithered her tongue into the ready channel making the new slave groan with desire. These measures brought back the fire that had, for just seconds, eased for lack of stimulation; and brought back with thunder echoing through her groin, she succumbed. Every nerve in her clenched, her fists squeezed tight into themselves, and without wanting any of this, her hips moved on the conquering mouths while her own mouth gasped.

Charlotte’s final passionate cry fell about the gathered almost as a balm of contentment—as though it were good enough to supplant their own need to spew (though spew they would, later).

As the tension in the hall eased, Mountbane strode before them again. There was other business to conduct. One forthrightly commenced as soon as the disgraced slave’s cum had withered away and the two tarts slipped off to attend to their Lord again.

“So,” he said, “what would my noble gentlemen suggest to punish this contrary slave? I’m so weary of the battle that I leave it up to you.” He was mocking them—which they all guessed. Mountbane would never weary of a battle as choice as this. But then, this was a fair game they could not help but enjoy. “Sir Ellemore, what would you say?”

“To punish, sir? I prefer the strength of a whip, long and hard against the flanks.”

Mountbane nodded his appreciation. “And Jerrod?”

“Torture by suspension,” he said as though he had it all figured out in his head and was ready with his ropes. “A complete bondage.”

Mountbane acknowledged the picture he brought to mind. “A worthy thought,” he agreed. “And Harrow? You know the subject as well as anyone?”

The wrinkled elder scowled as though that was his only mode of expression, as though disdain was all he could feel. “Save exhibiting her on a rack through the streets, I can’t think of any means to impair her unwholesome pride. Caius finds her insolence remains mean-spirited.” He would go on, but Mountbane stopped him, turning to Tristan, whose steady eye seemed willing to read from the woman’s heart.

“I would recommend the claws to punish her,” he said as Charlotte worried over this unknown. “If she doesn’t learn her lessons well, she’ll never survive Ilusia.”

Charlotte shuddered so that another wave of orgasm seemed to clutch at her crotch.

“That is so,” Mountbane conceded to the comment. “Affix the briared halter and girdle to her chest and loins, and let her pride think on that.”

Charlotte waited meekly in the aftermath of sex, frightened by Sir Tristan’s words, wishing desperately for even one brief moment of respite before her next trial appeared.

Now, almost in a stupor, she watched as an act she’d soon find more painful than she could ever imagine began to unfold. Two attendants came to her with chain mail garments in their hands: the halter that her husband spoke of, and the girdle for her loins. Beginning with her torso, she felt the heaviness of the metal and how it clung solidly to her body. The halter fit tight—and then more snugly still when a fellow behind her back began to thread the ends together with a metal rod. Most notably, she felt the briars, piercing metal barbs, which pinched, poked and stung the delicate flesh about her full breasts. To move even the slightest degree caused the barbs to bite more severely, making Charlotte certain that soon she’d bleed from a dozen tiny cuts where these desperate claws gripped and would not let go.

Thinking this the worst of all suffering, she soon learned that her woes were just beginning. Having removed the bonds at her feet, her captors had her step into the chain-mail pants as they slowly dragged them up her legs until they reached her groin. Once there, Mountbane moved forward, gingerly placing his hand at the apex of her parted crotch underneath the chains, where reaching carefully inside, he clutched her labial lips and pulled them wide, so her sex was splayed the moment his attendant tugged the crotch of the garment into place. Again, thread with a metal rod from behind, the chains tightened down into her skin and another dozen barbs pricked their way into her tender sexual treasures. This chastity belt was devised to cup her pubic mound and vulva below, giving that place the worst of the torment. Trembling nervously, Charlotte dreaded any movement, and so, held her breath.

“So, my wife, you like my present?” Mountbane queried.

Seeing tears pour from her eyes, he asked no more; but proceeded to the real torture. Circling her body with a tender reed in hand, he snapped it briskly, but not hard—not hard enough to even cause a simple blemish on her skin; but enough to cause her pain—indirectly. Her body twisted on impact and the dreadful metal barbs did all the work. There was no peace in this. When one pricked bit of flesh would feel relief, another would scream in agony. Each jerk was new abuse, with one agony heaped on another.