Author's note: I have a penchant for royals in bondage. There's something incredibly sexy to me about the tension between royal authority and bondage. I wanted to put to words a fantasy I have about a princess tied up on a throne, and this is what I came up with. If there's interest, I may flesh this out into a longer story later.
--
From the desk of the Honorable Sir John Grant:
To whom it may concern,
I write to you with a special report on the well-being of Princess Arwen. Respectfully, as you well know, my knighthood requires several things of me: I must act on behalf of the lord's court to guard my kingdom's people. I must abide by a chivalric code. And, perhaps most importantly, I must protect my kingdom's princess, by whatever means necessary.
The last of these responsibilities, as you are aware, requires a standard daily visit, during which I assess the princess's health and spirits. Most of the time, these visits are not especially notable, and do not warrant recounting. What distinguished this particular visit from the others was the princess's unbecoming and progressive insubordination.
I began my visit, as per usual, at the entrance to the palace's East Wing, where Princess Arwen could not be heard from down the corridor -- something I typically consider an affirmative indicator. As I passed through the grand foyer and strode into her chamber, I was pleased to see her seated firmly on her double-phallused throne, draped in glittering court jewels, with her crown perched atop her head and her gilded collar fastened around her neck, otherwise disrobed, looking as flush and rosy as ever. All of her customary bindings were in order; she was trussed in an upright hogtie with her hands and feet shackled in their gold cuffs and linked together behind the seatback with their center o-ring pivot point.
Her ample round breasts, too, were shackled, bound in chains, her succulent nipples solidly seized by their shimmering, ruby-dripping clamps (my favorite of her majesty's ornamentations). They were dewy, slicked up with with a fine honey lavender body oil, and pink from the tightness of their bindings. Her face was lovely as always, with skin-tight tape sealing her plump, kissable lips, wrapped wonderfully thickly and tightly around her head, from her dimpled chin to just below her nose, so securely squeezed around her face that her bright eyes bulged and her blushing red cheeks burst over the top. She tried, of course, to speak when she saw me, a sweet though fruitless habit to which I have yet to disincline her. Her fair voice was thick and garbled behind the plastered tape and plush mouth stuffing.
As is routine, I bowed, kneeling on my sword, at her feet upon my entrance. "Princess," I said, ducking to kiss the tops of her feet. She flushed modestly as usual, shifting in her bindings. "You look beautiful today."
She uttered another garbled cry in return. Her face reddened further still with the effort, and also with what I began to suspect (though her speech is always impossible to interpret through her corked-up mouth), by her furrowed brow, was defiance.
