Bitsy's Inhuman Submission

Now, it's time to hear Stuart's side of the story. This happens during the action of Chapter 10, in which he describes how he met Bitsy and how Tracy Bathory made her tantalizing offer. As always, please let me know what you think.

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Stuart was in a hell of his own making.

All of his adult life, he had been alpha. He had been able to plunder, rape, take, and possess whatever and whomever he wanted and damn the consequences. As alpha, there were no consequences. As king, there definitely weren't.

And now, just when he was finally getting everything he wanted, fate had to play several cruel jokes.

First, his brother had to fall for that dull stick Alyssa Mason. His brother, being the elder, being the one who should have been heir, became alpha because he felt desire for the first time in his life.

But, being a member of the royal family, Marc had no qualms about taking someone who was not his beloved.

Oddly enough, it wasn't no longer being alpha that perturbed Stuart so much, it was the thought of losing Bitsy. The threat of losing her to Marcos was real...a ready-made wolf-mate? Stuart, if he had been able to find one before first seeing Bitsy would have been, pardon the pun, over the moon.

But he had met Bitsy. He still remembered his first sight of her. As nominal leader of the family, Stuart had been the one to host his cousin's engagement party, even though he had never met the lucky lady. He thought Michael was crazy to be that so enamored of one woman when there were so many females out there willing to spread their legs (or open their mouths) to his invasions.

He had been whispering salacious images into one such female's ear when he looked up into a pair of peridot eyes that seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. Captivated, he broke away from his woman of the evening to get a closer look at her.

Her ebony tresses were up, he catalogued dispassionately, while the rest of his body sprang to attention at her loveliness. A few tendrils managed to escape as she looked around, taking in the soft glow of candlelight around her. The warm flames bathed her ivory skin to a burnished sheen.

Her dress, a shade of chiffon that exactly matched her eyes made her appear soft...vulnerable. Protective instincts, long dormant within Stuart, sprang to life at last.

She was disconcerted by the party...and trying hard not to show it. He realized that she must be a friend of Michael's fiancée—what did he call her, anyway? Barbara? Betsy? Billie? Brittany? Even while his protective instincts rose to the fore, a more familiar (and less benevolent) emotion enhanced the column of steel encased in his pants.

He wanted her. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone before. When she shifted to glance at the chandeliers, her dressed dipped a bit. Before, it was at least slightly modest. Now, he could almost make out a pink nipple glancing out of the neckline.

Discomfited, she tugged at the dress. The predator within could hear the soft shushing of the fabric from 30 meters away as well as her muttered unladylike curse of disgust at the fit of the dress.

In his mind, he could already picture how he would make her shout and moan other unladylike words when he felt Michael's hand at his back. "Cousin? I want to introduce you to Bitsy."

Bitsy. That was the name of his paragon-of-purity cousin's fiancée. In his mind, he snorted condescendingly. Tracy Bathory had warned him about the Ice Bitch, virginal just as his cousin was, a sharp contrast to the gleaming virago who now was looking about desperately for salvation.

Too bad for his new conquest—her salvation would come from him, and he would seduce her in return.

Stuart knew that he had a reputation for seduction and leaving, and he knew this time would be no different. But why did this woman make his blood burn as no other had done before?

Michael was chattering beside him about how wonderful Bitsy was, leading him right up to his—Stuart's—new conquest, his virago. The woman who now flashed a winning smile, her eyes full of love, aimed at Michael.

The virago—his virago—was none other than Bitsy Karnackii Dracula, his cousin's fiancée?

"Stuart, I would like to introduce you to Lady Elizabeth Karnackii Dracula, my fiancée. Bitsy, my love, I would like to introduce you to my cousin, King Stuart of Romania," Michael's voice seemed to almost burst with pride.

"Your Majesty," Bitsy whispered in that same musical soprano that cursed her dress only moments before. Eyes lowered submissively, she dropped to a low curtsey. As she rose and looked into his eyes, he clasped her right hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips.

Stuart registered the look of unease, of puzzlement, even more than he did the spark that flared between them at his touch.

That night, Michael and Bitsy went to bed, separately resting on sweet dreams of their future life together, while Stuart attended and participated in an orgy to get Bitsy out of his system.

But, as the nights and years passed, he would still see her in his mind's eye as he first saw her, the burnished virago, or later that evening, submissively dropping to a curtsey in front of him. On those nights, he invariably ended up pounding away at one of the many pussies of Europe, trying, but not quite succeeding, to eradicate her image and voice from his memory.

Whenever there was an opportunity to be in the same room, he avoided her. That didn't seem to be difficult to do, as Bitsy went out of her way to avoid him, as well. Maybe she had some latent instinct that screamed at her, as prey, to flee from the predator, Stuart. The more likely explanation was that she had heard of his exploits and was sickened.

When Michael left and disappeared, Stuart had already convinced himself that she would never be bent to his regal will. He had, in fact, convinced himself that he was over those first stirrings of lust when fate, in the guise of Tracy Bathory, intervened.

Tracy, on her knees before him, gloriously nude, removed her mouth from his cock with an audible "pop."

"I've got a present for you," she sing-songed.

Stuart, so close to shooting his load down her throat or on her face, grunted. "What?" he panted, nearly out of breath.

"You know how I've always promised to give you a sex slave in return for marrying me and making me queen?" Tracy began, tracing her tongue along her lips.

Stuart grunted. "Yeah? Whatever? And your point?"

"My point is," Tracy began stroking his cock, "I've found one for you. And you get to keep her for a year, at which time I should be able to become queen."

"Meaning you will have ridded yourself of your second husband," Stuart interjected.

"Meaning Kevin will no longer be an issue," she agreed as a matter-of-fact tone.

The king pressed his royal scepter against her lips, but Tracy refused to take him within her mouth. "Don't you want to know who she is?" she teased him.

"Fine. Okay. But then I'm going to prove what a cumslut you are."

Tracy narrowed her eyes at him until only the faintest line of malevolent blue ice showed through. "I am not a cumslut. You can make your new slave into one if you want, and, in fact, I will be quite amused when that happens. But I am not a cumslut. Now," she changed the topic briskly, "how would you feel about enslaving Bitsy Dracula?"

Forcing himself to breathe normally, because it was never a good idea to show any emotion or desire in front of the new Duchess, he injected false derision into his tone, "The Ice Bitch? That prude of a virgin that pines for my cousin's return? No, thank you."

He hadn't let the fantasies take over him in years, but with Tracy's offer they returned full force: Bitsy, submitting to him. Bitsy, his slave. Bitsy, cum trickling out of each orifice, her eyes shining, pleading, for more of his sensual abuse.

"Well, if it doesn't interest you, I guess I could go with the more traditional punishment, since she's confessed to killing my mother." Tracy dangled the option of Bitsy's death before him.

Stuart groaned. "If you execute Bitsy for your mother's death, the war will begin again. You will give them their martyr. Strategically, that is perhaps the biggest mistake you could make. And, I wouldn't support you." In the back of his mind, the sadist was polishing the manacles, repairing the clamps, preparing himself mentally for the sensual onslaught he was about to visit upon Bitsy.

"So, you do accept, then," Tracy looked deeply into his eyes in an attempt to read any emotion there.

Stuart made a show of reluctance. "I will, if only to save my country from another war."

"In that case," Tracy's voice was husky as she thought of the torture of Lady Bitsy to come, "I've brought you a plaything." She walked to the door, her red hair a riot of curls that teased the bottom of her inverted heart-shaped ass.

Upon opening the door, she tugged on a black leather leash, pulling in a young woman, quite obviously submissive, or at least dressed as a submissive, who appeared to be ready to serve.

"This is your plaything for the evening, Nadia," she explained after handing Stuart the leash. "You can practice on her for when Bitsy becomes your slave tomorrow."

Nadia, who appeared to be quite well trained, dropped to a straight-backed kneel at the snap of Stuart's fingers. "Bring me to orgasm, slave," he ordered, his normally black eyes sparking red, not from the supplicant before him but for Lady Bitsy who would soon occupy that spot.

In his mind's eye, it was Lady Bitsy's creamy flesh—though, to his mind, she was always Elizabeth—encased in black vinyl, the nipples revealed by cutouts in the vinyl but partially hidden with clover clamps of a thick steel that made the young sub wince. In his mind, it was Elizabeth's clear green gaze who looked at him through a twinset of crescent-shaped lashes rather than the brown gaze of Slave Nadia.

In his ears, it was Elizabeth's whimpers and moans that echoed in the room, musical and lilting as she careened into subspace with one tug of the chain attached to the clamps. Her voice that pleaded "Please, Master, no," as he rammed his cock down her throat and road as she choked and gagged on his thick member. It was not the whiny, petulant, Romanian-accented voice of this Nadia.

And, as he coated the back of her throat with his thick, steaming, bands of cum, it was her name, Elizabeth's, that he yelled as he found his release. Her lips, her stroking tongue, her trembling.

Spent, he drew in great whistling breaths, his mind already on the pleasurable torments he would be able to administer to Elizabeth's body tomorrow, and for the next year. Surely he would be sated of her, tired of her, after a year.

He pulled back from Nadia, vaguely irritated that he could no longer hold with the illusion that she was Elizabeth. An unbecoming scowl twisted her lips. Stuart slapped his cock on her cheeks as a warning that she, unfortunately, did not heed.

"But, Master, my name is Nadia, not Elizabeth."

The flat, black gaze, so like a snake assessing its prey, speared her. "No, you are a nameless, faceless slut. To prove that point to you, bend over this table." When she balked, he placed her bodily over it. Breathing heavily, already imagining that he would do this to Elizabeth shortly, he aligned her so that the under curves of her ass, rounded and begging to be chastened, twitched within easy reach of his crop.

A sizzling hiss slashed through the air to land with a muted slap on her buttocks. A throaty whore's scream. Nadia, who obviously was a very untrained slave, reached around to soothe her burning cheek.

"Big mistake!" Stuart's voice boomed in the silence. He dropped the crop so that the business end brushed Nadia's nose. Gathering a length of rope eight foot long, made of rough hemp fibers, sure to mar the wrists, the king secured one wrist, and then the other, to the front legs of the table. Using another rope of similar length, he did the same with her ankles and the back table legs.

To ease the way for his pleasure, he attached a spreader bar to each ankle, as well. An incoherent fury was upon him that he kept barely in check. Tracy had sent this parody of a sub, surely one of the whores from one of the many brothels she owned, as a "gift" for him? For him to practice on in preparation for his year with Bitsy?

Stuart took deep, shuddering breaths, willing himself to be in control. His anger could not be misplaced on the trembling body before him. His anger, oxymoronically nearly righteous, was centered directly on Tracy Bathory.

A fist clenched around the handle of the crop, but the man wielding it was much calmer than moments before. Still, sounds in the air reverberated through the two souls, the disciplinarian and the chastened, a volley of whistles, thwacks, and screams, thirty more of each until the king gently placed the crop beside the slave once more.

What the slave thought was a moment's respite was soon taken away as the king thrust his massive cock deep within the whore's pussy. Further proof of the girl's lack of servitude was in evidence with that first masterful stroke. The whore, while giving every pantomime of pleasure during the first act of the evening that was familiar to her, was dry.

Stuart sawed at the dry canal until he could take it no more. He jerked off, finally anointing her vinyl-encased back with his seed, empty of more than just his creamy ropes of come.

His mind and his heart hardened around one thought, a promise he made to himself: Elizabeth would never lie beneath him woodenly while he took an empty pleasure, a meaningless victory. She would ripen and quicken beneath him, her channel juicy and hot, regardless of what it took.

Stuart blinked, coming back to the present and his worries of losing the treasure, whose value was not diminishing in his eyes, as time went on.

Again, he put a lock on his worries and emotions, the roiling anger at the new twist Tracy Bathory made to his life's plans.

Grimly, he decided, it was time to introduce his slut to the glorious variety the spreader bar offered. With or without his brother.