Throne of Shame

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.

But princesses were not to be beaten. Soon, she would be shaken from her reverie by a hammering fist on the old oak door. It would be one of the palace guard - and one of her friends. The guard would be dismissed, and the princess and her young friend would look at each other in awkward silence, each knowing what must happen next.

The princess would apologise to her friend as she began to undress her. By now, all of her friends had stood naked before her, and over the passing years she had seen their bodies change. She held the hand of her naked friend as she escorted her to the A-shaped spanking bench, and apologised again as she spread her friend's legs, binding each ankle to a back leg of the bench. She would step around the bench to face her friend, both now blushing pink with embarrassment and apologise once more as she pulled her hands forward, bending her friend over the top of the bench, raising her bottom high to face her throne. She knelt down, securing her friend's wrists to the front legs of the bench with straps, and whispered a final apology.

The princess would step up onto the platform, and sit guiltily on her wooden throne of shame. She would watch with guilt and fascination as her governess dabbed her finger into a small clay pot of ginger paste, and rubbed it into her friend's bottom hole. In moments the leather straps would creak as she struggled against her restraints, splaying her buttocks wide as she seeks relief from the burning between her cheeks.

The governess would then explain to her friend the crimes she is about to be punished for.

The princess's crimes.

Picking up a long-handled paddle, she would look up expectantly at the straw-crowned princess, waiting for the order to begin. The princess would look down from her high throne, facing her friend's bottom, a few footsteps away, knowing she must perform her duty, lest her friend's ordeal be extended. She would blush red, but speak authoritatively, like a princess should.

"Proceed"

Smacks began to echo around the punishment room. The governess spanked hard, slapping one cheek, then the other with her wicked rosewood paddle. All the while, the princess stared down from her wooden throne, her gaze fixed on the reddening cheeks of her struggling friend, almost close enough to touch.

Each whack is accompanied by an anguished cry, guilt makes the princess long to take her friend's place, trying to imagine the sensation of each smack as it rings in her ears. Yet she can not avoid staring between her friend's lithe thighs at her most secret places. Underneath her sackcloth gown, between her own legs, she would feel herself tingling.

Soon, tears of guilt and shame would drip down her cheeks.

The chastened princess did not misbehave often.

Though sometimes, when she was alone at night in her chamber, lying in her ornate four-poster bed with its satin curtains drawn, her fingers would begin to wander. Her favourite fantasy involved the paddle, the throne and the spanking bench - and that intoxicating, illicit view of a freshly spanked bottom, and the secret area in between.

And sometimes, the very next day, just to see it again, she'd misbehave.

* * * * *

So it was with a shock that she realised she was not being beaten, but disciplined. For years, she had fantasised about such punishment, of receiving her comeuppance, imagining the hot sensations as her bottom was smacked. She had always wondered how much it would hurt; but it really wasn't that sort of pain. She stopped yelling.

This was discipline, chastisement, and she deserved it.

Later that night she was returned to her own bed, tied down and left alone to contemplate the warm afterglow of her whipping. It had been incredibly humiliating. But deep down - she admitted to herself, being so powerless had been very exciting. Whips and chains and rituals of discipline would bedevil her dreams.

The next night she was brought before him again. Again, he untied her gown, exposing her nakedness, and restrained her to his bed. This time though, she held her tongue, as if silenced by the guilt of unpunished childhood follies. He produced a seductive, spicy, musky balm and began to rub it into her feet and hands. She did not demur.

He combined the sensations from his fingers with his warm breath, gently blowing and nibbling her tingling flesh at the nape of her neck, then her calves, and behind her knees. He rubbed the balm further, nuzzling her inner elbows and thighs, before caressing her throat and breasts. Behind the silver shield of her chastity belt, a fire began to smoulder between her legs.

He would make no attempt to quench it tonight.

The following night, she was brought before him again. But this time, she untied her own gown, and lay down on his bed before he'd said a word. He smiled at her compliance, then turned her onto her back and tied her down.

Again his expert fingers began to spread aromatic oils across her canvas. Featherlight touches danced across her calves, earlobes, shoulders and the small of her back, leaving her longing for a lingering touch.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and raised her chin to see her sparkling eyes coruscate with desire. He explored the valley of her back, finally arriving at the crevice of her buttocks. A lone finger skirted her puckered entrance, causing her to frantically pull against her bonds in protest, but she was defenceless.

His finger teased and probed her hole, stoking the fire behind her silver shield, a hot, wet ache she was desperate to satisfy. Then he stopped, switching his attention to the soles of her feet, and then the nape of her neck. Each time he returned to her hole, his finger teased her more salaciously. She would tug at her bonds, trying to arch her back, urging his finger deeper, but then it would vanish, only to reappear in another corner of her world.

Later, his finger brushed her hole again. She was about to beg him for release when she felt a surge of shame. She suddenly realised that she was no proud princess, no untameable warrior spirit, they were lies she'd told herself, masks she'd donned. In reality, she was an undisciplined wench, a lust-driven harlot, a spoilt brat who'd got wet watching her friends being spanked for her own misdemeanours. He had discovered her true nature, he had whipped her like a scullery maid, and now here she was, behaving like one. He had found her weakness, and tamed her with her own desire.

He continued to tease, tickle and tantalise her until her will to resist finally crumbled like some long-besieged city wall. She cried out, begging him to remove her shield and take her.

But he just smiled.

"Patience, my lady. We arrive at my castle tomorrow. And I have a surprise for you."

* * * * *

They rode into his castle as the sun set, its granite walls glowing pink in the dying light. It sat atop a small hill, its six tall towers staring out like sentinels, watching over the lands he had sworn to protect.

He escorted her to his private chambers, and searched the eyes of his manacled guest. Now he could see the rage had vanished from her eyes. He unlocked her shackles. She stretched her arms and legs, then hugged him. It was not a romantic embrace, but one born of loneliness, the desire to feel the warmth of another again. Each smelled of sweat, grass and horses.

"Thank you", she whispered.

He knelt before her and unlocked the girdle of her chastity belt, admiring the delicate folds of her femininity. He undressed slowly as she watched. On removing his shirt, she saw his stout arms bore the souvenir scars of battles and skirmishes. It never crossed her mind to look away as he began to remove his undergarments. Through surreptitious assignations with past lovers, she was no stranger to the male form. When he stood naked before her and knelt, he could smell the musky odour of her sex.

He led her by the hand to the adjoining bathroom. The circular tiled pool had already been filled with hot water, filling the room with mist. Candles glimmered in the steam, flickering floating orange orbs, will-o'-the-wisps in a fragrant swamp. They entered the water eagerly and washed the grime of each other's journey away.

Afterwards, he dried and dressed her in a simple gown. They dined in a room at the top of a tower, on a table crafted from an old tree stump. After weeks of dried rations they devoured the fresh food eagerly; and slowly, they began to talk to each other. They learned each other's names, and related the stories that had caused their paths to cross. As the moon rose, he pointed out the lands below, the silver ribbons of the rivers, the dark shadows of the forests and the red dots of faraway fires, each a small haven of safety in an inky black night.

A silence - just the sound of cicadas chirping nearby - and then:

"I promised you a surprise"

* * * * *

They descended a spiral stone staircase, and he led her by the hand into a small room. The tapestries on one wall were illuminated by a bank of candles on the wall opposite. They were alone.

At the far end a single throne glimmered with gold. It was ornately carved, 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 towards it. "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 - and as she realised just where it would penetrate.

She noticed the silken bonds dangling from the armrests - and something else, a strange wooden contraption on the floor below the dais, just a few footsteps in front of the throne. It looked like some kind of spanking bench, she thought, suddenly recalling the details of the austere punishment room of her youth.

He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped silently around her feet. She stood naked in front of him without complaint. He spoke softly, but firmly.

"Please, be seated, highness..."

She hesitated, then stepped up onto the dais with as much dignity as she could manage. The throne's gilded craftsmanship was exquisite, but her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the bone-white ivory protrusion in the middle of the seat; it was as wide as her thumb, as long as her index finger, with a subtle curve, and there could be little doubt about its purpose. She knelt over the throne, and took the ivory finger in her mouth, her tongue feeling every sculpted groove as she moistened it.

She stood and faced him, her arousal obvious, before stepping backwards and beginning to sit. She supported her weight on the armrests as she lowered herself towards the ivory finger, then she felt it, cool and damp, poking between her bottom cheeks. She raised herself slightly, feeling the finger trace down her crevice, until it touched her arsehole. She pushed against it, gasping as she felt the cold, hard protrusion slide inside her. As her legs quivered, she dropped the remaining short distance, fully impaling herself on her new throne of shame.

She sat upright, regally, her posture immaculate. But he easily saw behind her pretence of elegance, she could not conceal her abasement as she squirmed disgracefully upon her throne's protuberance. He stepped onto the dais and bound her wrists to the armrests with the silken ties, then parted her legs to bind each ankle to the throne. His fingers glanced across her lips as he dabbed the damp patch of velvet between her thighs, tsking at her lack of self-control.

Fettered and immobile, she felt the pleasure of impalement spread from her arse to her crotch. She imagined a bonfire spitting hot embers towards a pan of gunpowder, realising the inevitability of an explosion...

But what he said next shocked her.

"Is this really how a princess should behave?"

She stared back, open-mouthed.

"What kind of princess wanders in rags, in the wilderness?

What kind of princess impales herself so readily?

What kind of princess soaks her own throne with her arousal?"

Dumbstruck, she let his words sink in. Had she really behaved like a princess in his company? Now without her jewels, her fine robes and her servants, was she even a princess anymore? Certainly her behaviour since they'd met had been more akin to a common harlot than a highborn princess. Now here she was, penetrated, owned and tied to be used - and she liked it. The intrusion in her bottom felt so good, and her arousal was undeniable; from her glazed eyes to her engorged nipples to the slick, open pink petals of her cunt. She tried to regain her composure, stretching against her bonds, trying to concentrate on other sensations.

"Let's see..."

Now he walked past the strange wooden contraption, and left the room. It reminded her of the spanking bench her friends had once been bent over, but it was much taller, almost as tall as he was. It was also much narrower, its legs were as wide as her stance at the base, but quickly narrowed to a leather-covered top - actually, it was more of a ridge than a top; an apex, an edge. But its most distinctive feature was the carved horse head at the end that faced away from her, it give the structure the appearance of an oversized children's toy. The head had an authentic-looking bridle, all straps and shiny plates and reins. At the end closest to her, there was a small rickety-looking two-legged stool underneath. A giant rocking horse, that didn't rock, with a back that was more edge than saddle. Her mind boggled at its strangeness.

She was still trying to understand its purpose when he returned. This time there was someone with him, a young woman who wore the utilitarian clothes of a servant girl. She was suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, but bound to the throne with her legs apart, she was incapable of covering her modesty.

"You stand before a princess. Be sure you show the due respect" he told her.