With lime green eyes that slash her enemies down and reflect the lime sheen of the lightning bolts she summons in her anger, Lady Elizabeth Karnackii nevertheless stood subdued, enchained, as she awaited her fate.
Her Grace, the Duchess, leader of the witches in the days since her mother's death smirked at the defendant. Elizabeth did not see the gaze; she was merely counting down the seconds until her death sentence is pronounced. She had been holding her breath since she confessed to the death of the old Duchess, a crime she did not--could not--commit, as the new Duchess well knew.
Tracy, the Duchess, cleared her throat. All eyes were on her as she preferred them to be. "I bow to the wishes of the court and King Stuart in making this sentence. I am grateful that I have this opportunity, as it was my mother who lost her life two days ago. I wish to show mercy for Elizabeth, as she so kindly confessed to the crime, sparing us a lengthy trial. In lenience, I commute the death sentence." A gasp went up throughout the courtroom. "Instead, she is sentence to a year in King Stuart's custody."
Stuart's lecherous gaze swept the trembling, enchained virago that had haunted his dreams for years. Ever since Tracy had offered this bargain, he had played out each fantasy he had imagined for his cousin's fiancée over the years. Now, only a few feet and the thin white muslin gown separated him from the body that made his dreams ignite. The chains, rather than repulsing him, served only to heighten his desire for Elizabeth. Images of her spread eagle for his delectation played in his mind.
***
Stuart led her, stumbling, by the chains that joined her hands together down the heavy stone stairs into the darkness of the dungeon. With a laconic gesture, he lit a match, his features taking on a demonic cast in the light of the candle he now lit.
He waved his hands expansively, a gesture only obscene as he parodied the generous host. "This will be your home until you learn to please me."
With a rough jerk he tugged and then finally dragged her to the manacles that were placed on the far wall. The candlelight caressed the menacing devices that Elizabeth tried to ignore.
Elizabeth kept her head down, eyes downcast, as he ordered her to lift each hand to be shackled to the wall. The heavy black iron of the manacles contrasted sharply with her ivory skin; the coldness seemed to chill her to the bone. Stuart was gratified to see her pale pink nipples stand proudly in relief, the only impudence his domination would tolerate.
For Elizabeth, she refused to acknowledge his control of her; instead, she dreamed of her gentle love, Michael, the king's cousin. She bit her lip almost to the point of drawing a thin line of green blood.
"Further," the king continued, "you are woefully overdressed." A sword, the wickedest blade in the king's collection sheered the fragile muslin of her gown. Even Stuart, the master swordsman, was shocked at how easily his blade divided the delicate fabric. The blade worked until her body was bare to his gleaming dark gaze.
Her refusal to look him in the eyes, for him to completely enjoy her humiliation enraged him. From a nearby stone table he lifted a riding crop. With the handle, he pushed her chin up until she was forced to catch his gaze.
"Rule number one: I must always be able to see your reactions in your eyes. Hide them from me and the punishment will be all the more severe."
Her mute, mulish glare was her only response to his dictate.
"Second," he added, slowly running the loop of the crop across each puckered nipple, "you will refer to me as 'Master' or as 'Your Majesty.' Is that understood?"
Although fear of the leather crop shook her slender frame, Elizabeth responded, "Is that all, Your Highness?"
She flinched as the crop raised and slashed twice in quick succession, once on each uptilted nipple.
Stuart's voice thundered, "What did you just call me?"
Elizabeth's wheezing whimpers echoed in the cavernous gloom, her only reply. To her shame, she felt her body tearing--not her eyes, which would be embarrassing enough--her softness between her legs wept, for what she could not begin to understand.
Her mind balked at Stuart's demands. She was not raised as a Romanian; she was no subject of his to do his will. Even more, she did not understand why his touch, his masterfulness, aroused her. Michael, before he left, had impressed on her the need for them both to remain sexually untouched until they wed. Until now, she had kept that promise.
Stuart, by far more experienced with the female sex, recognized the signs of arousal: the taut, pouting nipples begging for lips, teeth, tongue, whip, and candle wax; the uneven breathing that caused his predator's senses to sing; and the sweet wetness even now dewing the curls at the apex of her thighs, curls that he would have removed so that she could hide none of her secrets from him. Even now, the sweet muskiness that betrayed her beckoned him to taste.
Elizabeth, still pondering her reaction to him, wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue. "I'm sorry...Your Majesty," the words tumbled from her trembling lips.
Her words of unwilling submission snapped him out of the trance her aroma had triggered. "That will do...for now, slave," his voice snapped with a frustration he couldn't conceal.
Elizabeth flinched at the word that echoed just as her whimpers had filled the chamber earlier.
She was no one's slave, much less his. The mutinous light entered her eyes again.
Stuart welcomed the lime green flash. "Your Highness," she stressed, "I am not your SLAVE!" The hand that had held the crop loosely now tightened as he returned to his new toy. "Would you care to restate that, slave? You have only this chance." For emphasis, he smacked the loop of the crop into his other hand, the heavy smack causing her to wince, although the green lightning did not fade.
From deep within her, her natural hauteur rose to the fore. "No. I don't wish to restate anything. Your Highness," she added, merely to goad him.
One hand still clenching the crop, Stuart's other hand grabbed for the closure of his pants, yanking until his strong heavy arousal was free. He then removed her from the manacles at the wall, a twisted smile playing on his face.
With a look that could only be described as unholy glee, he yanked her by her raven waves to her knees to the cold stone floor. He pulled her head up merely to be able to see her fear-laced disdain.
"As you will not learn your place, I think it best to institute your first punishment. I am going to gag you. You will take my cock in your mouth while I take a crop to your slave's ass. Maybe then you will learn your place."
Pinching her nose so that she was forced to open her lips, he plowed past her soft lips to the hot wet cavern that he had dreamed of nightly since his cousin's engagement to her.
Her lips spread obscenely with his thick member, Elizabeth struggled to breathe. The first sharp smack of the crop caused her to jerk a bit, bringing a groan of pleasure from the king.
Swishing smacks rained down on her tender rounded buttocks until soon the ivory blushed pink, then magenta. Tears streamed her eyes and gurgling noises escaped around her cock, yet she refused to move. Refused to give him pleasure. She refused to acknowledge the juice dewing her curls that leaked slowly down her thigh.
The king, meanwhile, held himself rigid as he mentally counted the swats to thirty to allow himself the pleasure of her mouth enrobing his cock. Finally, he could take no more. Using her hair as a leash, his cock rode her mouth cruelly, mindless of the choking, gagging noises issued forth from the back of her throat.
