Her throne glimmered with gold. Ornately carved, fashioned by the continent's finest craftsmen, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.
He took the princess's hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her.
"Your throne, your highness"
He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat - as she realised just where it would penetrate.
Silken bonds dangled from the armrests. He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped around her feet.
"Please, be seated, highness..."
* * * * *
Once upon a time, in a faraway land of cloud-capped peaks and twisting paths, in a grandiose turreted castle adorned with fluttering pennants, lived a princess.
She was no fragile damsel, but a headstrong fighter, prepared to slay any man who dared challenge her feminine strength. By habit, she drew her sword with a defiant toss of her head.
Yet she would flee from her kingdom one fateful night, leaving all her riches and privileges behind. She had discovered she had been betrothed. An arranged marriage, a life not of her choosing. From her bedroom tower, the world had stretched out below her, beckoning her with the promise of adventures. There were turquoise seas and ancient forests, bone-white sands and shimmering lakes, sun-wracked deserts and eerie crags.
She would not be a minor supporting actress in another's fairytale. She was a princess! A warrior! And she was determined the world would know her name. She disguised herself in a soldier's cloak, hurriedly grabbing just the barest essentials and her favourite sword, and stole away from her castle by starlight.
Several weeks later, their paths crossed at a rickety river bridge.
He was a lord, returning home with his army. His scouts had spotted her, but he rode up to challenge her alone. The two warriors instinctively crossed swords. Fighting - or was it flirting with their blades - teasing, probing, determining each other's character with every thrust and parry. Until, exhausted and sweaty, they locked eyes, and in that moment understood each other.
He told her to accompany him. She had resisted, vigorously, of course. So he had her put in chains. It was either that or leave her to stumble into the merciless clutches of his enemy's roving armies. They would ensure the remainder of her life would be nasty, brutal and short - staked to the ground naked for soldiers to defile.
She accompanied his army on their ride home as a captive. When they made camp the next night, she was brought to his tent, still chained. He described her likely fate should she be freed, and offered her an alternative, instead of serving an army, she would serve only him.
"I'll bow to no man!" she snapped back.
He just smiled at her challenge.
Her clothes were filthy from weeks sleeping rough, he soon cut them from her - despite her protests. Afterward, he bound her to his bed and washed her. Then he shaved her, his fingers protecting her soft lips from the razor's edge.
She shouted in indignation when she saw the chastity belt.
It was a supple white leather belt with silver front-shield that curved like a horn as it tapered between her legs. He adjusted the girdle so the silver curve hugged her body like a hand cupping her crotch, the palm covering her shaven mound, a silver fingertip tantalisingly close but not touching her bottom hole. No man would touch her; neither would she.
The following night she was brought before him again. He untied her gown, exposing her naked, save the manacles around her wrists and ankles, and the small silver shield around her waist that defended her modesty. He pushed her onto his bed so she lay face down, and restrained her further with rope. She cursed him angrily for his affront. He chided her for her indiscipline - then began to whip her thighs and buttocks with his riding crop.
She yelled furiously, raging at the indignity, cursing his impudence.
No one had ever chastised her before.
She was a princess!
No one had ever dared be so bold.
Yet she had grown up under the shadow of physical discipline. If she had misbehaved, or flouted her royal household's strict rules, her governess would escort the rebellious princess back to her bedchamber and undress her. Once divested of her fine silk robes and undergarments, she would be redressed in calico undergarments and a gown of coarse sackcloth. And in place of her gold filigree tiara, she would wear a circlet of straw.
Once dressed more humbly, the princess was escorted to the punishment room, high in the old decaying East Tower: a rarely visited - and conveniently out of earshot - corner of the castle. The room contained a padded leather bench and crude wooden throne on a small raised platform; she called it her Throne of Shame.
The disgraced princess would then stand in front of the spanking bench. And wait. She was meant to be contemplating her misdemeanours, of course, but her attention was drawn instead by the small details of the spanking bench - and the stories its patina revealed. Like how two holes in the restraining straps were worn larger than the rest, the holes that represented the diameter of a young lady's wrist. And how, in the bench's black leather, she could see the shadow of goodness-knows-how-many generations of squirming miscreants scuffed into its surface.
All the while, behind her, she would feel a palm-sized wooden paddle pressing against each of her buttocks, kneading, lifting, spreading each cheek, but never striking. She would wait in silence, and begin to long for a sudden smack, or a firm push in the small of her back that would bend her over the spanking bench, or the thrillingly cold draught of her gown being lifted as her bottom was bared. Still she waited.
