Beauty's Kingdom

  “It is safe with me forever, Master,” she answered softly. “Put your secret in my heart.”

  He sat down, pulling her onto his lap. Holding her in his right arm, he squeezed her breasts tenderly with his left hand. She thought she would lose all control, but she fought the torment, fought it, gazing at him adoringly, wanting to kiss away the tears from his face.

  “Years ago, Laurent, the King, he mastered me just like that. I mean it was so simple for him. One moment he’d been a slave beside me subject to the same punishments, and the next he’d picked up the belt of the Captain of the Guard and made me his trembling slave. How was he able to do that so easily, Blanche? How could he pass from one mode to the other? How could he find room in his heart for either role?”

  He looked into her eyes.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” she said. “I’ve never understood such things. I long to submit, to lose myself in submitting. I always have.”

  “He will make the greatest ruler Bellavalten ever had,” said Tristan. “But it is the new queen who wants you tonight. Are you prepared to please her?”

  “Master, how can you ask? I would do anything in this world you ordered me to do, for you, for Her Majesty, for anyone to whom you gave me. You know it.”

  “Yes, my darling,” he said. “Well, first you’re mine.”

  In a twinkling he was on his feet and so was she. He’d spun her around and his big firm right hand came down in a series of hard spanks.

  “Fresh, sweet, beautiful,” he said. “Now at once, over the end of the bed.”

  He drove her forward and bent her over the figured coverlet, and pushed her legs wide apart with his foot. The rough tapestried fabric made her nipples tingle. And she couldn’t keep back a loud moan.

  “You’re barely blushing from my hand, little one,” he said.

  She felt his cock driving into her vagina, felt it fill her and split her open deliciously as her clitoris rubbed against the coverlet, yet not enough, not nearly enough. Oh, this was pain and pleasure mingling like smoke. Her hands were opening and closing vainly.

  Again and again, he pounded her, lifting her now and holding her thighs in his powerful arms.

  She came with loud uncontrollable gasps. His body spanked against her, and the pleasure flooded through her again and again.

  This was the most precious of moments—when she thought nothing and saw nothing and likely heard nothing, when she was the pleasure she was feeling, when every sinew of her frame was taut with it, when she knew not where she lay or how long it would last.

  Her body was limp, flopping like that of a doll.

  At last, it was ebbing, leaving her. She rubbed her breasts against the tapestry, moaning, arching her back.

  “Oh, my lord,” she gasped. “My beautiful lord.”

  When he came it was with a muffled cry. That was always his way, that low, muffled, gentlemanly cry. The last few spasms of his cock reignited the orgasm. She thought she would cry out.

  And then came the awful moment, the moment when the cock was pulled out, when she was emptied, but it was happening, it was over, over so quickly it seemed and so cruelly and she lay there, legs apart, feeling his hands on her hips, waiting, aching, hoping for what he might do or will next. The Queen . . . she could not quite imagine it, as she had only glimpsed the magnificent Beauty once since her arrival, and she had no sense of the woman’s soul.

  With a firm grip, he flung her over on her back, pulling her with his right hand to center her apparently on the bed.

  She could still feel the carpeted floor with the balls of her feet.

  “Wide apart!” he said.

  And she struggled to open herself up totally and completely as he commanded, her eyes closed.

  “Galen, come here,” he said.

  She didn’t dare to look at him, but she knew he was right there, because she could feel his leggings against her own naked legs, and she could feel his fingers now touching her pubis, smoothing the hair.

  “Now, I want this trimmed,” he said. “Neatly. Not shaved, you understand. I don’t care for that at all ever. But I want the hair neatly trimmed. And then wash her well inside and out. Oil her. Perfume her. And then bring her back to me to take to the Queen.”

  Within minutes, the rough cleansing and grooming were finished.

  Galen had been anxious, fearful, and uncommonly clumsy, but she hadn’t cared. Poor Galen. What did it matter to her?

  The Queen’s private chambers in the north tower were their destination, Tristan told her as he covered her with a heavy hooded purple cloak.

  “Put on slippers. This castle is dusty,” he said to her. And Galen fitted them to her feet.

  She hated the touch of any fabric on her, anything that interfered with her pure nakedness, but they were not in Bellavalten now; that she well understood. The passion was building in her again, the telltale damp was returning. And then they hurried along the passage together, and up the stairway, Tristan deeply absorbed in his thoughts.

  It was a well-appointed bedchamber, with costly tapestries and an inviting fire on the hearth. A grand bed stood back in the shadows. And in a high-backed well-carved chair by the fire sat the Queen.

  There was another figure in the room as they entered, but Blanche could not see who this was.

  At once, Tristan removed her cloak and told her to approach the Queen in the customary way.

  Blanche quickly obeyed until she found herself kneeling before the Queen’s golden slippers just peeping from beneath the gold embroidered hem of her dark blue gown.

  Blanche kissed the soft gilded leather of each slipper appropriately, her heart melting at the smell of the Queen’s exotic perfume. Crushed flowers and spice.

  Then came the soft appealing sound of Prince Alexi’s voice, deeper in timbre than Tristan’s, the words running more slowly and evenly, suggesting patience, aloofness.

  “. . . simple thing to do what you want with her, if you want to do anything with her, that is.”

  “She’s exquisite,” said the Queen. “Like flower petals, this skin. Kneel up, Princess Blanche, and slip your hands to the back of your neck and look at me and then look down.”

  A shock passed through Blanche as she obeyed. The Queen’s bright blue eyes were girlish and trusting, and her mouth appeared soft and guileless and naturally pink.

  At once Blanche looked down and felt her face burn hot.

  So this would be the new sovereign of Bellavalten, this comely and elegant young woman, so fresh, and so appealing and so seemingly without coldness. But faces could be deceiving, Blanche well knew. She’d been spanked hard many a time by the most innocent-looking young pages, cherubs with lilting voices who swung the paddle fiercely and laughed when Blanche moaned.

  A deep delicious fear thrilled Blanche. Would this lovely creature punish her? It had been too long since she’d been punished by a woman.

  Again her face burned.

  “Why are you blushing, child?” asked the Queen.

  Blanche felt the Queen’s fingers under her chin. This touch, this gesture, always made Blanche feel doubly exposed and helpless. She knew the tears were springing into her eyes.

  “Give me the paddle, Alexi,” said the Queen. “Tristan, you may go or stay as you like. I thank you for this precious toy.”

  “The King’s sent for me, Your Majesty,” Tristan said.

  And this too thrilled Blanche, but she did not know why. Could she more fully yield to these two, the Queen and dark-eyed Prince Alexi, if her master were gone?

  “Well, then you must go, mustn’t you?” said the Queen. “Don’t keep the King waiting.”

  Blanche sighed inwardly and secretly when she heard the door of the chamber close.

  To her left she could see the leather shoes of Prince Alexi, those soft slippers for house wear, wrinkled and
curling at the toes. Dark green leggings and the hem of a long green tunic. She dared not look up for any more details.

  With a shock she saw the Queen’s sleeve in front of her and then she felt the Queen’s warm fingers pressed in the tender part of her upper arm.

  “You’re softer than the petals of lilies,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “Now stand up, and let me inspect you. Turn your back to me. And I am watching your demeanor. I am watching your smallest gestures.”

  Blanche obeyed, not daring to utter a word.

  “Ah, yes, you are silent, because I haven’t given you permission to speak,” said the Queen. “Well, you may answer ‘Yes, madam’ or ‘No, madam.’ I like this simple form of address.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Blanche. She was on her feet and felt painfully awkward, painfully desperate to please. Her eyes misted. She could see much of the rest of the chamber now, the dark solemn procession of figures in the tapestries, and the sparkling jeweled red coverlet of the elegant bed. Red. Red seemed the dominant color everywhere—in the Turkish carpet on which Blanche stood, and even in the tapestries where the reds rang out from the somber background in which so many muted tones mingled around pale faces with sharp-edged eyes.

  “How many years have you been a slave in the kingdom?” asked the Queen behind her.

  “Five years, Your Highness,” said Blanche anxiously. It should have been “madam.” Oh, it certainly should have been “madam.” Again the blood rushed to her face.

  Prince Alexi had moved around in front of her, and she gazed now at his long tunic and his thick leather belt. Would he spank her soon with that belt? It had a thick silver buckle to it, intricate and beautifully worked.

  “Five years,” the Queen repeated. “And tell me whom and how you’ve served.”

  Blanche struggled for composure. She was crying. Why did women always bring tears to her eyes? Of course she wept with abandon whenever she wanted, as all slaves were always encouraged to do. But with women it seemed her tears sprang quickly, and a little thrilling sadness gripped her at each syllable that Beauty spoke.

  “I was sent to serve for a year, madam,” she said, her back still to the Queen. “I served at the Court for the longest time. I was slave to Princess Lynette.”

  “Not the Princess Lynette of my time?” asked the Queen. “Turn around, girl, and face me and keep your eyes modestly lowered as they should be.”

  “Yes, madam.” Turning, she found herself staring at the golden slippers, and the perfume rose in her nostrils again, delicious and bitingly sweet. And this queen had indeed been a slave herself long ago, Blanche thought. She had stood for others as I’m standing now.

  “Yes, but Princess Lynette ran away, did she not?” asked the Queen. “I heard gossip of it in the village.”

  “Yes, madam, or so the old tales say,” said Blanche. She bit her lip, struggling, unable suddenly to remember what she had heard and from whom. Suppose she revealed some gossip about her former and very strict mistress that she was not supposed to say.

  But Prince Alexi came to the rescue, whether he knew it or not.

  He came to the Queen’s side, and placed his hand on the back of her chair.

  “Lynette ran away, yes,” he said, “and she lodged in King Lysius’s kingdom for a long while. You remember, Your Majesty, he would not return escaped slaves, as he was skeptical of the Queen and her enjoyments. But then Princess Lynette returned on her own, confessing she’d only run to be captured, and she was quite bored with life at King Lysius’s Court. She was sentenced to the village then and to the female pony stable and there she served for years. She was sent home a year before I was.”

  “Ah, I see. I remember your story of her, Alexi,” said the Queen.

  “Yes, madam, I told you quite a story there.”

  And Blanche too had heard the story of how Princess Lynette trained Prince Alexi for a delectable little performance before the whole Court.

  “She came back some six years ago, as I understand it,” said Alexi, “and the Queen received her kindly just as she later received me. I’ve dined with her many an evening since the Queen went away. She has marvelous tales to tell of having served in the Lord Mayor’s stables. She would help you build the new stables for female ponies at the castle with all her heart.”

  “I shall rely on that,” said the Queen. “And was she a strict mistress, Princess Blanche?”

  “Yes, madam,” said Blanche softly. “Very strict.”

  “And were you ever sent to the Queen’s Village for punishment?”

  “Yes, madam, I was sent there, but only for a summer, and for ‘slight imperfections,’ as my mistress called them, which she wanted to see cleaned away. I was there for three months in the hotter weather, and served in a shop that sold various trinkets. I was used there for display.”

  “I never saw such a shop. Explain this to me,” said the Queen.

  “Adornments, madam. Clips for nipples or earlobes, chastity belts of gold, leather cuffs, and chains and such.” Blanche realized she was trembling. This was the last thing she’d expected, to have to speak so much. But the Queen made not a sound, and anxiously, Blanche continued, “I was adorned and stood near the door for the passersby to approve the wares.” A vivid memory of it engulfed her, of the hot cobblestone village street, where she stood motionless by the door, just as she was standing now, only her nipples were painted and adorned with coiled wire, and from the wire had hung tiny golden bells. Men and women of the village passed her, some ignoring her completely, others stopping to pat her bottom, or pinch her, or tickle the golden bells. And then came the serious buyer who would inspect carefully, and order her inside as he asked for the golden bracelets she wore, or the jewel adorning her navel, or the tiny pearls strung through her pubic hair.

  “Why is your face so red, Princess?” asked the Queen.

  “I don’t want to displease you, madam,” Blanche said with a short muffled sob.

  “Oh, nonsense, you are not displeasing me. I am only asking. I want to know what you feel.”

  “Helpless, madam,” said Blanche. “I . . . I was remembering . . .”

  “Was the shopkeeper rough or kind?”

  “I cannot complain about my masters, can I, madam?”

  “Ah, so rough. Did he beat you often?”

  “He sent me to the Punishment Shop every morning,” said Blanche, the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “Ah, now, I have heard of that, the Punishment Shop,” said the Queen, “though I never saw it. It was where bad little boys and girls were spanked by a seated whipping master while the villagers gathered to gossip and drink.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Blanche. “He always wore a big leather apron and he was . . . Forgive me, madam. Forgive me.”

  “Forgive you what? Was he harsh? I want the truth.”

  “Harsh, madam. He spanked with a wooden paddle. If the audience liked it, if they even took a little notice, well, he’d give extra smacks. And if anyone paid for another spanking, he was all too willing.”

  “And were you a favorite with the morning crowd?”

  “Always, madam.”

  “Come now, girl. I’m going to spank you. And you are going to tell me whether or not I do it well.”

  Blanche shivered, and her eyes melted with thick tears. But the Queen had given her no command as to what to do.

  “Come, over my knee,” said the Queen, “with your head towards Prince Alexi. The simple and elegant way with your hands touching the floor.”

  Hurriedly, Blanche fell to her knees and stretched herself out over the Queen’s lap, her sex pressed against the velvet of the Queen’s gown, and the desire in her exploding soundlessly yet with a throb she felt in her ears.

  Her shoulders were shaking with her sobs as she lowered her hands to touch the floor before Prince Alexi’s boots.

 
She felt the Queen’s right hand on her backside, just touching it, prodding the flesh.

  “So soft, so fresh,” said the Queen.

  “She is lovely,” said Prince Alexi. “But I should caution you. Her skin, pale as it is, is resilient and so it is tempting to spank her very hard, just to get the proper blush. I’ve seen her spanked along the Bridle Path at the castle and come out of it amazingly unblemished.”

  Blanche’s sex was drenched with her own fluids. Surely the Queen would see this, see the moisture shining between her legs.

  No sooner had this thought occurred to her than she felt the Queen prodding her anus, opening it, but not with her finger. “Tight little thing,” she said. It was some sort of little rod which was now withdrawn and Blanche felt ever more utterly without will or dignity or purpose except to give pleasure to the Queen.

  Suddenly the paddle caught her by surprise. With amazing force, it cracked down on her bottom, drawing a little cry from her undisciplined mouth. Blanche stiffened all over but the next blows came so quickly and so loudly that she was suddenly moaning aloud again. She pressed her lips together, and this only made her choke with sobs. Again and again, the Queen spanked her hard.

  “Come on, little girl, arch your back for me,” said the Queen, “that’s it, I want your little bottom raised for the paddle.” And on she spanked furiously until suddenly Blanche’s bottom was a riot of tingling pain.

  She felt utterly undone suddenly, without any composure, sobbing and biting down on the sobs, her fingers playing on the carpet, and her eyes seeing Prince Alexi’s slippers in a blur.

  His hand came down and gathered up her chin, and that was too much for her, the tender fingers lifting her face. She would have cried, No, please don’t look at my face, if she could have, but this would have been unthinkable. And she sobbed bitterly, feeling her breasts shivering against the Queen’s skirts.

  She was spanked and spanked again, the paddle catching the underside of her bottom now, and slamming her hard on the right side and then the left.

  The Queen’s left hand rested suddenly on her back. “Arch your back. Must I tell you again?” said the Queen. “That’s it. You want to make yourself as presentable as you can for me, don’t you?”