Captured Princess

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Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

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Harem Fairie Tales - Captured Princess

The door bursts open, the lock broken by the helmeted head of one of the brutish guards who have kept me here for days now. Splinters fly everywhere, and though I probably should, I don't avert my gaze.

I've waited for this moment for

so long

. My rescuing prince, here at last.

He steps in as if from a dream. Smoke billowing around his feet. An imposing figure: tall, helmeted, holding a heavy blade, helmeted, and clearly in excellent shape judging from the ease of his movement in his heavy, dusky blue armor. Smatterings of blood are visible along his sword and various armor pieces—but a

tasteful

amount. Not so much that it would be imprudent or gross to leap into his arms. Enough to let me know he's fought and killed to save me.

My heart flutters, a tiny bird's wings, thinking of that. Killing for me.

Saving

me. A

quest

for me.

It's just like one of the stories!

I'm trapped—or

have been

trapped, I suppose, now that my hero is here—in this dungeon for days. It's utterly awful. The bed is half as large as I'm used to—only a good nine feet by nine—and I've been suffering with three pillows instead of five. I've only had

one

servant to bathe me, and all the clothes are either from last year's style or so terribly revealing that no respectable princess would ever wear them. They serve me fresh vegetables and fruit, can you believe it? Fruit! Like I'm some awful porker they're trying to get to drop weight when I'm

already

filthy hot and thin.

Of course it's the evil crone sorceress Sybille Le Fane who has captured me. That wicked, ugly bitch has been scheming for years, ever since my father tossed her out of his kingdom. Little does she know that capturing me will be her fatal mistake—the sorceress isn't the only one with a trick or two up her sleeve.

I mean I'm

not

wearing sleeves—the clothes here are so dated, like I said. This tiny gown is more fit for a ball from last year's Winter Gala, bright white and with a

deeply

plunging, wide neckline. My Sir Knight can see all of my exquisite collarbones, my long neck, the delicate arrangement of my hair. I've been spending the mornings here in the woefully inadequate sunlight—nearly half of the windows in this parapet are

north

for goodness' sake—making myself look pretty in case he arrived.

Of course, I'm a princess, so looking pretty is quite

easy

for me. It always has been for the girls in my bloodline. It's said we're descended from the consorts of the warrior god, his blonde winged Valkyries. With how naturally tall, fit, busty, and blonde I am, you'd believe it to see me.

The entered knight tosses away the corpse of the guard—a complete savage, only sneaking me three or four special treats a day—and takes a long look at me up and down. Such a look would call for execution from a peasant; from this obviously noble knight, however, I can feel a flush rising up from my sensational cleavage all the way up to my ears. My breasts heave in their tight confines. I'm afraid this dress may burst at an inopportune moment, the fabric is so clingy and thin. He can see the gentle edges of my rib cage, the inviting protrusions of my hip bones.

"My knight!" I clasp my hands to my rising breasts, keeping his eyes there. "I'm so thrilled you're here! You come to rescue me?"

"Aye."

He is a man of few words. That is fine by me; I would love a husband who will not talk much. A man of

action

. Lovely; wonderful.

"May I see you, Sir Knight? May I know the face of the one who has saved my day?"

He shrugs and lifts his helm up. I squeal delightedly; he's

smashingly

handsome. Dark-eyed, dark haired, and a ruggedly handsome face like I've always dreamed of.

"Oh, Sir Knight? May I kiss you? May I please,

please

kiss you in thanks for your rescue?"

He shrugs, again, nodding. "Aye."

I shall cure his ambivalence with enthusiasm!

I press my body into his, knowing the feel of my tight, young, eighteen year-old body must be a delicate comfort after such a long, hard quest as his. Our lips meet, tongues intermingling. His hands—at first slightly unsure—come closer around me. He drops his helm and presses the pommel of his sword deep into the cheeks of my rear, hiking my body up into his.

It's a lovely, sensational, amazing kiss. I frankly think I must very nearly be in love. It's so lovely to be there at last—at last! As a wealthy, beautiful, land-owning teenage princess, I feel like I never get what I want. It's so lovely, too, that he's clearly a fighter. I must admit to being rather turned on by the bloodshed done in my name; it's so exciting to be

wanted

so badly. This moment is so, so perfect, but still I must ask...

"Sir Knight?"

I pull away from him briefly. His eyes smolder and I'm tempted to kiss him again; he clearly wants me to do just that.

"Of course, you know I am Princess Marjorie Bernadotta. But who, might I ask, are you?"

"I am Prince Vincent," he says. Smiling just slightly. "Of Terandren."

I gasp. How

scandalous

.

I thought at

worst

he would be some minor land-holding noble from a house I barely recognized. But this is even

worse

. Houses Terandren and Bernadotta have been feuding for years.

Both of our lands are so completely wealthy and enormous that our border skirmishes have been often compared to the all-out wars of other, lesser families. It's a shame that hundreds and sometimes even thousands of peasants and common people must die to preserve the sanctity of our respective familial estates, but sanctity

is

rather important, and it's not as if those peasants were doing anything truly important. If they were, why would they be peasants?

"Do-does...your father know?" I ask. "Does

mine

?"

"No one knows. No one else was man enough to risk the journey here. Just me."

I melt inside a little. My mind is racing, thinking still of the scandal this will create. Obviously, I

must

marry him and carry his children—he is a prince and he has now rescued me from an evil sorceress. It's rather expected that I be his merry wife for ever after.

But...how would this possibly work?

Before I can think about it too long, he kisses me again—and once again I melt. It's very easy to kiss him, so utterly dashing, and I must confess with my heavy tits crushing against his armored chest, my tiny frame so completely feather-light in his massive, strong arms, I must be a tempting target.

One hand goes down further, alongside my leg, search, tugging up the fabric.

He

wants

me. Wants me

now

.

I've heard other ladies of the court say that after a battle, their man's blood is up and the first thing he wants is sex. "A good fuck," Lady Jocasta will call it, but she

is

rather foul-mouthed, as I'm sure you've heard if you know anything at all.

I want him. Obviously. I've never had an orgasm before, but I've heard they are

ever

so delightful, and I'm quite sure that a man as tall, muscular, and handsome as Vincent must be deeply skillful at handing them out. The way he looks at me, touches me, kisses me, makes me feel that he would pin me down and take me completely. Disregarding my needs. Forcing what he wanted out of me. Maybe even

choking

me...

It all sounds so deeply romantic. I'm sure I would have my very first orgasm from his passionate disregard for me. There is nothing a proper lady loves more than to know she is nothing but a tool for her lord's pleasure.

But he is

not

my lord yet, and we are

not

out of the proverbial woods yet.

"My lord

,

" I protest. His hands traveling up my toned, fit leg. "My

Prince.

" His kisses along my neck are so sweet. They make my head become dreamy and forgetful and hot. "Your Highness—!"

His hand stops just short of my sacred entrance at my inner thigh.

"Did you kill

everyone

here?"

He shakes his head. "There are still plenty about."

After a moment, squeezing, fingernails biting into my soft untouched flesh, he withdraws. He pulls out a small root from a pouch at his waist and chews it quickly; some kind of pain reliever, perhaps? He has been fighting an awful lot.

"You're right," he says finally. "Not as giggle-headed as you look, are you?"

I feel a little thrill at the complement. He thinks I'm

smart

. Or at least smarter than I look! The Terandrens are known for their progressive views, I suppose. How lovely to have a husband who might listen to me!

"We must leave, and quickly. And then, when we're away...I'll have my way with you."

I let out a sound of anguish, wanton need, and delight. A terrified, desperate giggle, perhaps? I want him badly. I want him

in

me. I've never wanted that before. But we

must

be married first. I'll have to be very firm with him. From what I can tell,

firm

is something he's rather used to.

But...

"We can't leave. Not yet."

"Why is that?"

"Sybille le Fane. The hag. She'll track us. Hunt us."

"I've killed her soldiers already. I can kill some more."

"She'll hunt us with

magic

, your Highness."

He frowns. "Can I stab it?"

It's so fortunate he's found me. How was he able to even do that without me to guide him? I'm not sure my fair prince is a fighter in the brains department.

"You can do something better." I put my hands on his face. "You can stab

her

. What she doesn't know is that when she captured me, I managed to secret away a small phylactery without her knowledge." It's disguised as a necklace, but layered in protective ritualistic runes and spells. A small silver cylinder wrapped with leather cord and drawn about my neck in lovely silver chain. I draw it out from my cleavage and hold it for him to take. "We break it in her presence, and her magic will be useless."

"Then I stab her?"

"Then you stab

her

..." I slide my leg up his. "And then, your Highness, you'd be free to stab

me

."

He clearly gets the double-meaning.

I'm sure he'll be

deeply

disappointed when I delay him to wait until marriage, but perhaps I can hold him off by taking him in my mouth?

Lady Jocasta says some women even quite enjoy it, though I'm sure that's just because she's from a ruddy, peasant-filthy bloodline that hasn't had a good marriage in over a hundred years. Still, I

will

"suck him off" if it means my virginity is sacred until our wedding night, as it should be.

"I don't know," he says. "Never fought a sorceress before."

"Are you afraid?"

He bristles. "I've seen men turned inside out from magic. Of course I'm cautious."

"The phylactery will work. I promise. It's guaranteed." I draw him toward me again and kiss his chin. "It would be such a lovely wedding present, that ugly sorceress's head on a platter. She's been hounding me for years. She sent

dogs

to one of my birthday parties, can you believe it?"

"Like, big dogs?"

"

Mangy

dogs, wanting to eat table scraps and spreading fleas. She's a menace. And she's absolutely horrid to look at. Warts. Scraggly hair. Awful skin. The lot."

"What's her problem with you?"

"It's not with

me

in particular, though I rather

hate

her as I should, as a loyal daughter to my father. He rejected her advances, once upon a time. He instead devoted himself to my mother. She's been sore about it ever since."

I can see he is still mulling it over.

"Speaking of my father..." I say, as if suddenly remembering. "He will

greatly

appreciate your assistance in this small matter of revenge killing...should you be interested in increasing my dowry?"

I can practically see the gold filling his eyes. It's a sad state of affairs that simply asking your newly betrothed to kill a woman for you isn't an automatic "yes," but as a noble woman, I'm well-educated in the art of negotiation.

He shrugs. "All right. Let's kill the ugly bitch."

* * * * *

Heading upstairs, there's very little resistance. A few of the guards see me and wave happily, asking to introduce themselves to my new friend. They want to show me the gifts they've gotten me. These hapless fools have been in love with me—as most men are—from the moment of seeing me. I'm so painfully pretty, even I have a hard time looking away from my reflection most of the time. As such, they've tried to enhance the desolation of my stay with this dastardly sorceress Le Fane.

After Vincent slays them brutally at my insistence, I pick through the gore with a fireplace poker and take a look at what they purchased for me. It's trite, meaningless trash—a silk blanket here, a pair of pearl earrings there.

You see? This horrid place. Not an ounce of class. I'm a

princess

; I'm to be the

queen

some day—especially if I'm married to Vincent Terandren! I'm supposed to subject myself to the gifts of these peasant-minded guards like some common girl?

At least by now, it must be rather clear to you what a

torture

this has been. Sybille Le Fane is a plague on my life, and the sooner she's out of the picture, the better.

I follow Vincent downstairs and through a series of hallways and rooms, each more luxurious than the last.

We enter one room that is practically

all

bed, a vast mattress featuring silk sheets and heavy, perfumed pillows. Several beautiful, sleeping women stir when they hear us enter, smiling dreamily at Vincent and beckoning him to join them. The sheets fall from their bodies to reveal naked, pale skin beneath. Their bodies have no hair besides the luxurious manes atop their heads, and their skin is so polished and shiny it appears almost wet. At the sight of my Prince, that wetness becomes an obvious reality, as they spread their legs and show him their glistening, juice-covered folds to draw him in.

Another foul spell of temptation by that dratted sorceress! I push myself against my betrothed, gripping his codpiece with abandon.

"Surely," I say softly, "my Prince is not tempted by such tawdry tarts as these? Would they even have virginity to take, like mine? Would their dowry be so very impressive?"

They're hardly tawdry, and I can't even say truly if they are tarts, but he takes my meaning and we carry on.

The castle is beautifully furnished and arranged, room after room—and more rooms promise even more women. I urge Vincent to hurry us through, afraid that le Fane's sorcery is becoming more powerful as we travel. Grand artworks fill the hallways featuring lewd acts by gorgeous angels worshiping a crowned man. In some, he sits upon a mountain with a lap full of adoring beauties overlooking a world on fire.

Finally we come to the court itself, entering through a wide wooden double-door, ornately carved with runic imagery of huge-breasted nymphs chasing one after another. I find it positively

blasphemous

that a wild-blooded

sorceress

would be so devastatingly arrogant to create a

court

for herself, but here we are.

The first thing to notice is the singing. A chorus of heavenly voices fill the vast operatic space with beautiful verse, something about worshiping a King. The acoustics are impeccable, incredible amounts of wooden paneling creating just the right reverberations. Pleasant, heady incense fills the air, no doubt the terrible, evil bitch preparing some awful spell to make the lives of others worse.

I would happily throw away the lives of dozens of peasants just to stop her. Hundreds!

"There," I point to the end of the hall, a hundred yards away. "She's there, you see?"

She waits, obscured for the moment by a crowd of attendants—the ones doing the singing. He can hardly

not

see, but I'm a little afraid my betrothed is somewhat slow on the uptake. I can't tell all the way if he's truly dim-witted or just prefers taciturnity, but I've known enough strong warriors to assume it's the former.

I can work with that, of course. One doesn't need to be smart to be a king, only noble. Dumb kings are why the gods made counselors, after all. He just needs to be strong and willing to pin me down in the bedroom and make me feel like I can never escape...and I'll be perfectly happy.

My thoughts are increasingly sexual the more I'm around him; I have to confess to be developing something of a

hard

crush on my rescuing prince. I already wanted him to bed me, naturally, but over the hour or so of our escape, I cannot stop wanting it

now

. The thought of his stiff, thick member sliding up my thighs, across my virgin folds, breaking down the wall of my entrance for the very first time...

I let out a long, breathy, lusty titter.

"What's that?" he asks.

I just stare back at him and giggle. It feels good to be a giggly, happy little girl around him. When he waits, patiently, for an answer, I struggle for the words.

"N-nothing," I smile. "You're just so handsome. I cannot wait for our wedding night, my love."

He smirks a little and shrugs, clearly knowing this isn't quite the time. If we're due to be married anyway, perhaps it doesn't matter if he fucks me rotten ahead of time?

Ahead of us, perfectly formed white marble tiles interlock with bright red, lacquered stone, forming an intricate magical symbol of some kind. It looks rather like a sun with a crown around it. At the far end of the hall is a massive, empty throne. It is clean, sleek, steel; clearly made for some kind of giant. The crowd of attendants parts and faces our approach. Next to the throne, in a tall, high-back velvet-cushioned chair of a High Counselor, is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

Sybille Le Fane has her long legs crosses and arms up as she conducts the women's choir before her. Her face, gorgeously defined, is bright and cheery and intense as she listens to and watches them. Bright, big eyes such a deep cloudy gray-blue they seem almost violet. Full, lovely lips. Her crimson gown, smashingly cut, with substantial cleavage pressed tightly together by its form-hugging fabric, reveals everything. Bone structure, cup size, inches between her thighs can all be easily seen and estimated from what she shows—and somehow she's so beautiful with such aplomb and grace that the revealing outfit still looks regal. Her hair, thick and dark as gathering shadows before dawn, seems to float around her body. It's so completely thick on top that even

I

feel an undeniable urge to run my fingers through its silky, smooth mass.

She leads the gaggle of singers—all of whom are also uniquely gorgeous and sporting wings sprouting from their backs. There are twelve of them, plus Le Fane. Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes. Pale. Dark. Exotic. So many varieties of beauty. At first I thought they were wearing the wings somehow, some kind of harness or something—but they wear only delicate lingerie or backless gowns. That they truly have giant, feathery wings is undeniable, living real-life angels.

Or Valkyries.

They move as they sing, expanding outward into a wide circle as their music swells. I notice I can

hear

instruments, but I can't seem to see them.

Foul sorcery, of course. Using her dirty magic to...to...create beautiful music that makes me feel happy and giggly. Something is definitely wrong here!

It's a great tune though. And I do love the idea of worshiping my King with

all

that I have...

Like Le Fane, the "angels" wear tall heels that accentuate the turn of their calves and the shape of their ass. All of them seem so long and fit. Unlike Le Fane, their tight, tiny outfits are entirely sheer. Each of them is so fantastically built that looking at them, while erotic to the extreme, also feels like witnessing some kind of art display.