The smell of cheap rotting pine wood, straw, and horse shit filled the air, cloying and heavy, crawling its way up into my nose to linger. The old covered wooden cart carrying me and two others, rumbled down poorly kept stone roads. One wheel, warped from water damage, added a lilt to the sway of the cart, that sent me jerking from side to side, alternatively bumping into the splintery unsanded wall of the cart, or my sister in chains. We three were all bound at our hands, as well as ankles, shackled together with a chain a mere foot across, forcing us into an awkward shuffle when made to walk. The girl next to me shakes with fear and whimpers every time we are jostled against one another. The girl across from me weeps silently. We are a sorry lot to be sure. The aftermath and castaways of battles already forgotten in the excitement of a new war.
I was six when my life was stolen from me. It felt a thousand summers ago now. I could scarcely remember my parent's faces. The invaders stole our food-stores and valuables, killed most, and even took a few women as slaves. There was no way to know which my mother had ended up. The armies of our king drove them off, but not before most of my village had been killed or captured. Serfs were sent to replace the field workers and rebuild the town, and soldiers rounded up anyone under the age of 13. No one wants to care for a child not their own. For the next few years I scrubbed floors, and beat rugs and tapestries clean, and polished glass and silver, until my fingers bled, and my limbs went numb from effort. My only respite was the giant bed I shared with four other girls my age. My life turned into an endless cycle of effort. If I disobeyed I was beaten with a dried reed on the backs of my calves. It left horrible welts that hurt for days but never caused any lasting harm that would prevent me from cleaning and mending.
We were taught to sew, but no one bothered to teach any of us to read or write or even speak properly. There was no reason for it. Our only tasks were to take orders from the cantankerous House Maiden who directed our efforts and dealt out punishments. I was once beaten for asking what my name was, as I had forgotten the one my parents had given to me before they died. The House Maiden just called all of us 'Girl'.
When I was ten and two I was moved to another, larger castle. This time there were
lots
of girls like me, and I had my own bed! I lived in a big hall with dozens of other girls. The Castle Maiden was just as mean as the last though. The reeds were replaced with a mean leather crop, as meant for a horse or ox. It made a threatening loud cracking sound that echoed through the castle when she used it. By direct comparison it hurt less, and the sting only lasted hours, not days, but she was
accurate
with the damned thing, and knew where it hurt most. The backs of our knees was often a popular target. She liked to do it when we were carrying something too, so if we buckled and spilled, it would give her leave for even harsher punishments.
I wasn't moved again until I was twenty, with nothing but rubble and ash left of the last place I'd known. Nothing more than a scullery maid turned spoil of war. I didn't know which side had me. I didn't even know which side had won. I'm not sure it mattered.
This time only a few other girls went with me. Just three of us. I noticed the two girls I was with were exceptionally beautiful, but I didn't understand the significance of that at the time. The castle we were moved to was even bigger than the last. Bigger than I knew could exist even! It had three giant towers, the tallest of which scraped the clouds on this foggy day. We huddled together in fear in the back of the wagon that pulled us into the imposing structure. What opulence it contained had to be imagined, for the entrance we used was dank with mold and moss, and the smell of rotting wood.
Older servants, scullery maids, butlers, waiters, men-at-arms, soldiers, castle guards, cooks, and stablemen all gathered here, though those distinctions were lost on me then. We three were gathered into a side room. A man was already there, and he appraised us in a calm, detached manner that sent shivers of fear down my spine. He had the same leather switch the Castle Maiden had, and poked us with it, posing us in a line, raising our chins and turning our heads with it to view our profile.
After spending a while to ponder, gazing at us all in turn, a gleam of hunger in his gaze, he gave us names. Mine was Holly. We were all named after flowers.
After that the large strong man, smelling strongly of wine, grabbed me by the upper arm and eagerly dragged me to a long corridor with a row of matching doors with iron locks, set on alternating sides. He opened the nearest one. Inside was a small stone room, noticeably warmer than the corridor. A diffused heat came up from the floor, the smell of firewood baked into the stone. One torch on the wall next to the door provided a warm flickering light. An odd throne in the middle of the room was the only other feature. It was propped up by a single thick wooden pole, the height of the room, that disappeared into the stone floor and ceiling. It gave the impression of running the entire height of the castle. No windows, and no tapestries, it was otherwise a bare room.
He put me on the throne. It was designed so that I lay flat and folded nearly in half, with my head held up and forward by a small curved and upholstered pillow. My legs were up and wide, bent at the knees and feet in the air with soles pointed to the sky and fitted into stirrups that tightened down with a wooden screw. The bind forced my body, shoulders to ass, flat against the leather back of the throne, which had gentle curves following the shape of my body. Leather straps at my ankles, and above my knees, pinned my legs to the worn wooden leg rests. Fear curled in me, shortening my breath. My arms were made to be fixed against the main pole, bound with soft, fur lined leather cuffs. A series of holes bored into the pole let him feed the chain connecting the cuffs through and set the bind based on the length and flex of my arms, to which he stretched me to my limit. The bind pulled me solidly to the back of the throne. I flexed in my bonds, immobilized. To the sides of my gaze was the head immobilizing pillow, like horse blinders. Glancing down, my chest loomed, pressed out immodestly, and beyond, my body laid vulnerable and open, skirt pooled down around me revealing my underclothes, and the whole of my sex pressed into a flat plane. Testing more now I found I could wriggle my hips around, and arch my back a bit more but that was all. I reflexively tried to close my legs and felt the wood and straps flex to their limit, creaking, but holding strong, keeping me spread wide and folded in half, a barely understood modesty driving terrible shame through me. I wanted to fix my dress, and cover my shame. I trembled in my bondage as this scarred, and brutal looking man, towered over me, gazing down at my helpless form, and radiating a greedy, hungry lust.
The throne had me at waist hight of the man who put me there. He stepped forward, looming and crowding me but not touching me. He pulled a blade from his waist and started cutting my simple dress and undergarments apart. I tried to scream but my throat rebelled. I shook in fear, pulling at my bonds and thrashing my head from side to side as he tore my clothes from my body until I was bare before him, bound and stretched wide. I burned in shame, screwing my eyes shut, hot tingles erupting all across my face, and down my neck. I had never even been left alone with a man before, let alone denuded before one, like a whore. Everything in me wanted to hide, to cover my shame. He stepped close. Far too close, I recoiled at the smell of him. Sweat and drink. I turned my head to the side as much as I could and squeezed my eyes shut.
