The Darest Night

It was an interminable wait. He understood all about building anticipation to an event such as this but even so, people were starting to fidget. Beer tankards were slammed and rattled against the wall, whilst impatient jeers were called out. Everyone had some degree of interest in setting eyes on the Princess, the one whose life would shortly be beholden to another.

The Prince's eyes scoured the room looking for likely candidates with whom he would have to contend, should the female in question be a suitable match. For the most part many were there for the sheer entertainment, a few for the unique experience of just seeing a slave auction, which left a very few who actually had the money to accomplish a prize such as this. Lucius had decided it was a battle purely between himself and one other, on careful consideration of the room. The adversary he'd spotted was a merchant, but one whose coffers were quite full judging by the gold brocade, sweeping velvet robes and the amount of retainers he had doting on him. If anyone had a pretty penny to spare for a Princess, it would be him. The Prince's eyes narrowed in thought.

Finally, admist much fanfare, was announced the much anticipated arrival of Her Highness Princess Rosalind. Spitting, clawing wildcat would have been a more apt description. She had her wrists and ankles fastened in thick steel manacles, connected to steel link chains and was dragged forth bodily, kicking and screaming by two burly slave traders. In all fairness to her, she was giving them a hard time. They were big, hardened fellows draped in steel plate and wearing vicious looking swords at their sides. They were there for the safety of all concerned; to make sure the slave was sold and that the audience was happy. Who looked after their safety, was anybody's guess, thought Lucius.

The Princess was shrouded in a heavily brocaded white silk hood and cape, and her face was mostly hidden for the moment. The rest of her body was determined to try and do as much damage as possible to anyone who happened to get in her path. Both men had taken nasty gashes from her long fingernails and were holding her at arms length. Thankfully she couldn't move fast, the hobble chain between her ankles was not even a foot long.

'I see she's anxious to help Daddy out,' Lucius murmured to Byron dryly.

'Errr not exactly. How about we go back and you marry Gabriella?' Byron asked.

'You must be joking. How about we go back and you marry Gabriella?' Lucius replied.

'Done,' Byron muttered and made to leave.

'Hold your horses,' the Prince placed his hand on the valet's to stop him. 'I like them feisty. She'll be eating out of my hand in a week.'

'She might EAT your hand in a week. Actually if you asked her nicely, she'd probably devour it in a couple of hours,' said Byron, with a knowing glance.

The slavers wasted little time in dragging the silk covering off her highness, anxious for her torment to begin and theirs to end. There was a collective gasp, followed by utter silence on her unveiling. The Princess was indeed something to behold. A slight slip of a girl, not yet eighteen years of age. Innocent azure blue eyes, although currently breathing fire, framed by dark sweeping lashes and perfect, full carmine-coloured lips. Her pale blond hair was swept into an elegant chignon behind her, the thickness of which hinted at tresses which would touch the base of her spine; all in all, quite enthralling. Lucius was not the only man in the room to be enraptured by the sheer beauty of the picture she presented. Some of the men in fact, such as Byron, were slack-jawed with awe.

'Stop dribbling,' said the Prince, rolling his eyes.

Slowly Byron's jaw worked itself shut, but his gaze never wavered.

'Let's see her naked,' said a strident voice from the back.

It took a few seconds for that one to sink into the crowd before all began jeering in agreement. 'Naked, naked, naked,' came the boisterous chants as fists began to rise in the air.

The Princess' struggles stopped for a minute as her fiery look swiftly vanished and her cheeks in that perfect English rose complexion paled to alabaster. A slight tremble shook her body.

'Oh dear Lord,' muttered Lucius to himself, 'she has no idea what Daddy's got herself into. How perfectly marvellous.'

It was getting better and better. The slave traders stepped forward, keeping their prize in a grip of steel. One withdrew a dirk from his belted waist and moved in front of the Princess. His voice could clearly be heard over the crowd as he growled into her ear.

'You will stay still, M'lady, or firstly I'll cut that delicate, soft skin of yours and secondly I'll thrash you for the disobedience. Understood?' He finished his sentence with a lecherous leer and bits of warm spittle flew upon her cheek.

Rosalind swallowed hard and tried to stop her shudders. How had she gotten herself into this mess? What had she done to deserve this? Yes she was strong willed, sometimes defiant, but to be sold as a SLAVE? She would be without rights, all rank stripped away and her life would be at an owner's mercy. How could her Father do this to her? Give her away to the highest bidder... some mean, merciless man who cared not a whit for her.

Powerless with rage she SCREAMED and thrashed once more helplessly against the men who held her, knowing the chains would not give, but needing to give vent to her fury.

The slaver had the knife poised at the tip of her breasts and had just begun to sever the fabric to disrobe her when she began to thrash uncontrollably. The glistening blade sank into her flesh.

'BASTARD,' Rosalind shrieked as the blade punctured her flesh, blood welling up in a thin trickle, staining her white bodice slowly crimson.

'Right, enough's enough,' growled the man holding her and with a nod to his accomplice proceeded to drag the princess to the back of the dais. Without much ado her wrists were fastened high above her to thick iron eye bolts protruding from the castle walls and similarly her feet were secured to the stone floor. The slaver stood in front of her and let his hand fly across her face.

The vicious backhander rang out sharply and echoed around the stone walls. It cracked across her face and sent it flying. All thrashing ceased instantly and her body dissolved into a trembling mess. No speech was now forthcoming. A few seconds later fierce heat flooded her as a red handprint bloomed upon her cheek. This was the first time in her life anybody had dared to raise a hand against her. Emotions were rushing through her body, many of which she couldn't understand.

There was anger, fear, shock, horror and yet something else which she could not explain.

Something which sent a fluttering heaviness to spiral through her body, causing her to squirm and without being able to quieten it, a hard moan burst through her lips.

'I think she likes it and she's too shy to ask for more,' rang out a voice in the crowd. Bawdy laughter followed.

Attempt two of removing the princess's clothes went much more smoothly. The slaver simply took the two ends of the ripped fabric and rent them apart with powerful jerks of his arms. The long silk robe tore easily, virtually straight down the middle and landed in a pool on the floor. Rosalind was left with nothing more than her thin, white under garments. A whisper could be heard from her lips.

'Please, no, don't leave me here naked,' she begged on a sob. Her predicament was finally beginning to sink in and she realised that she had no control over what was about to happen. No-one was coming to her rescue and these cold, leering people in front of her wanted nothing more than see her brought low and snivelling before them.

'Your pleas are useless here, Princess, save your breath,' replied the slaver. His dirk once more appeared and this time he easily sliced through the silk chemise to leave her standing in rags and being devoured by a hundred pairs of greedy eyes.

Oh God, how her arms strained at the manacles holding wrists and ankles imprisoned. What she would have given to cover herself at that moment was anybody's guess, but it would have been all of what she owned and then some. If it were possible, her cheeks stained an even greater shade of red and her body began to tremble harder.

The room was once again silent. Eyes nearly popped out of heads to take in soft, creamy flesh... exquisite as the finest, most translucent porcelain and unblemished by a single mark. On display were perfect breasts with plump and rosy aureoles, which trembled as the Princess breathed. Then a softly contoured stomach, leading down to long, firm legs inside which nestled a tiny fluff of pale blond pubic hair. The white tatters that remained of her chemise only served to enhance the sheer perfection of such a body. A titter of excitement went round the auction room.

Lucius was rather disgusted to find himself drooling over her highness along with every other bastard there. For some unknown reason, she brought out something feral, something raw and instinctively primal within him. There was a building need to have that body under him, to lose himself completely and to plant a desperate need for him inside her. He could already taste the scent of her on his tongue, feel that satin ivory flesh sliding with such sweet friction against his, as he breathed in her very essence.

'Earth to His Highness. Danger. Princes of the realm must not be seen looking either:

a) dreamy or

b) romantic.

It's bad for the image.' Byron sighed heartily.

'Ahhh well, there goes our street cred.' Despite the sigh, a big smirk remained on the valet's face.

The comment served to snap Lucius out of his reverie, though, and find things in the auction room had been moving apace. The high Priestess was being summoned.

'What do we need a Priestess for?' asked Byron curiously. 'Is she going to bless the slave with wishes for a long and hard life of servitude or give her God's commiserations for having such a spendthrift father?'

'She will be checking that the hymen is intact, you idiot,' muttered Lucius, shaking his head.

Byron looked none the wiser.

The Prince threw up his hands. 'Fine, let's try it again and I'll be sure to use small words so you understand. She is the VIRGIN checker.'

'Ahhhhh,' said Byron, light finally dawning.

'I'd have thought you of all people would have had a vested interest in the outcome.' Lucius looked thoughtful. 'Still, on the upside – if she's not, your head will look damned fetching on a 12ft pike outside my bedroom window.'

Byron found himself swallowing rather convulsively, eyes glued to the stage as the Priestess began 'her checks.'

*

Rosalind watched as the old lady approached. She knew how this worked, that being the marvel of castle gossip and regular slave auctions. A few incantations from the leathery old crone, a couple of braziers lit and the unsheathing of the ceremonial dagger. There was no escape for now. This was her fate and all she could do for the moment was brace herself for the pain and humiliation which would inevitably come next.

*

The high Priestess took her time picking up the dagger. The ancient, jewel-encrusted steel knife had a dull blade and it was by this she picked it up, upside down. It was the hilt that was to be the centre of attention, glistening with precious stones such as rubies, amethyst, turquoise and emeralds, the depth of the rise into the Princess's sex would determine her virginity and alter her value dramatically.

Rosalind watched as her lips began to move, the incantations soft and undulating at first. The dagger in her hands moved slowly, to rest underneath her tight nestle of curls, lightly teasing back and forth at the entrance of her sex. Try as she might, Rosalind couldn't stop her body from squirming. The moan she wanted to utter was clamped down with gritted teeth, but her hips swung forward helplessly. The crowd roared. She was giving them the show they wanted. Back and forth the cold steel of the dagger tormented her swiftly heating flesh, causing a sensation that Rosalind had never felt before. She looked to the crowd, eyes pleading for help as her hips once again bucked lewdly back and forth, face and body filling with heat and her sex throbbing. The Priestess's chants only become louder and more shrill as they pierced the roaring silence of the room, almost cackling as her victim writhed beneath her, legs spread wide as the dagger began to twist upwards.

'God, noooo,' Rosalind wailed to the delight of the crowd; feeling the thick hilt, rough with stones, begin to penetrate. It stretched her tight flesh unbearably, cold and unforgiving as it moved inexorably forward. She thrashed crazily once more, banging and rattling at the bonds that held her fast, but the Priestess's grip never wavered and the dagger began to slowly rise inside her. The hilt's stones scratched her previously untouched flesh and the sensation which as yet she could not describe made her arch her neck and whimper out loudly. The Princess didn't care what the crowd thought now, embarrassment had left her for the briefest of moments, to be replaced by a yearning, a want, eyes glazing with need as her pupils dilated to little round orbs of darkness.

Those eyes sought the crowd, played to them, spoke to them in volumes as they flitted from one likely owner to the next. Her nipples hardened to ripe, little red peaks and ached horribly. The dagger managed to fulfil its journey a quarter of the way in before painful resistance was met. Rosalind howled as it tried to push higher, eyes now searching for a rescuer... resting on Lucius' for a brief moment in time.

Lucius held his breath as she looked at him, felt the connection between them and the way his pulse rocketed as a surge of adrenalin shot through his body. He noticed the way her body strained and lifted up on tip toes as the dagger speared her upwards, saw the look of pain shimmering in her eyes and almost, almost felt sorry for her.

'A Virgin,' the Priestess cackled and bowed to the crowd, before a frenzied roar of delight rang around the auction room. She left the hilt buried halfway inside the Princess to prove how tight that little sex was, before moving off shuffling to check her braziers of hot coals.

Lucius turned to Byron. 'You must have been born under a lucky star, I swear,' he muttered darkly, voice only slightly unsteady.

Byron only rubbed his neck affectionately in response. His breathing was also unsteady, but not for the same reason.

*

Rosalind felt the dagger lodged inside her, pointing out obscenely, and shuddered. She felt her body clench around it, over and over; trying to expel the thick, heavy object and failing. So be it. Other more pressing things were hers to worry about. As far as breathing went, hers had all but vanished as she watched the Priestess sink the long, thin, iron rod with the 'S' brand on its tip into the centre of the brazier, waiting for it to light up and turn a fiery molten orange. This wasn't happening. It was some awful nightmare that was gripping and winding itself tightly around her. But it wasn't. The only reason she knew for certain that it wasn't... was because she was either about to vomit or faint and her dreams weren't that life-like.