My second bath with Oksha, the maid, was a particularly painful shade of embarrassing. I admit that as she cleaned my face with warm, lavender scented urns of water, I could not help but weep. Before my abduction I had a general idea of what happens between a man and a wife after their wedding, or for the wicked, any night beforehand. However not in my most wild and imaginative state could I have envisioned what Gareth had just done to me. He had stuck his cock far into my mouth, and without worrying about my need to breath or swallow, used me for his pleasure.
My mind shied to think of what had happened next, but Oshka's warm washcloth wiping up my face was a continuous reminder. He had spent himself on me, making his seed run down my face like obscene tears. It had gotten in my hair, and in my eyes, and even flecks of it were evident on the beautiful silk robe that had been lying on the floor beneath me. And as if this degradation had not been enough, he had proceeded to torturing my clit.
Admittedly my sobbing in that bath was not entirely over my hurt and disgust, but also was the result of my frustration and shame. For long minutes Gareth had assailed my clit, building up a heat and a pressure deep in me. After he had left the pressure had remained. I could still feel my heartbeat between my legs, beating a reminder of his relentless fingers. I found myself thinking back to the day before, and how it had felt to be taken by Gareth on Kavan's table. I was thinking about his cock tearing through my most private of places, and the savage rhythm that our bodies had made together. These thoughts only made the pressure worse. I wanted to reach down and touch my clit in the way Gareth had just done, but the presence of Oshka in the room stymied this desire.
By the time I was on to my next ordeal I had cried myself out. In fact, I looked quite presentable. My hair had been combed out by Oshka again, into a straight, silky curtain. My face was clean, my eyebrows had been plucked, and even my teeth had been rubbed to a shine with some paste. I was given a robe to wear, green this time, with an elegant crane embroidered on it, while the tailor and her assistants set up in my bedchamber. They instructed me to stand on a small pedestal, and like a swarm of bees, started taking my measurements. The tailor's girls spoke similarly to girls from my village, and this small connection to the world outside the castle warmed my heart. They complained amiably about having to get a wedding gown done in half a day, but I could tell they were excited.
When the robe got in the way of the measurements the tailor had me cast it aside. I was relieved to note there was not a single man in the room. Even my door guard was waiting in the hall. The girls seemed completely comfortable with my nudity and continued to take measurements on my body for which I could not even imagine a purpose. "Your neck is so delicate, Lady Isme. It must look so elegant in your jewels," One piped up, to my surprise.
"Your hips are so full! I want hips like those," the girl who was measuring around my thighs sighed wistfully.
"Her hair! I never can grow mine out that long." Another assistant girl whispered to yet another and pulled at her chin-length sandy hair. "Oh it will be so lovely at the wedding!"
In a motherly way the tailor shushed them, "the fact that not all of us are cut out to be Queen of this country... should be surprising to none of us." She had a long-suffering tone as if she spent too much of her time having to keep these girls in their respective places. "Be quick now, there is much to be done." The girls turned back to their work, except one, who's gaze lingered on my full breasts, as if wondering what she would look like with them.
The girls' reactions to me shocked me. In my village my beauty had been a source of shame. Women cast me out of their conversations when they saw their husbands eyeing me. They called me a whore and a slattern under their breaths and stepped on the hems of my dresses to try to trip me. It had felt so unfair, because I had done nothing to encourage their husband's sideways glances. In fact, I had never talked to men, unless it was absolutely crucial to an errand I was forced to run. Besides maybe once, I had done nothing in my life that deserved such cruel words.
Once, when the faire had been in town, I had caught the eye of one of the traveling storytellers. He had bought me drinks, which I had refused to imbibe, and plied me with compliments that I did not even half believe. However, he was charming, and nice on the eyes, with his dark shaggy beard and blue eyes, so I found myself unable to convincingly banish him from my presence. One night, with a sly look in his eyes, he commanded me to meet him by the riverside at midnight. I told him I would not go, but he had just replied sternly that I would. He seemed to know about a facet of me that even I had not guessed at. That night I did indeed show up at the riverbank.
He was there waiting for me, and business-like, told me to pull down my dress to show him my breasts. All the flattery in his voice was gone, leaving a deep, forceful voice that I had a hard time refusing. My hands performed the task he wanted, while my brain was confused why he was getting his way. I knew I should not encourage him, and that I should stay completely chaste for my future husband. "Stand still now for me." He cupped my now exposed breasts, using his thumbs to roll my nipples in small circles. I had been breathing shallowly and felt as if a veil of unreality was covering my vision. I felt like I could not move, both out of fear and out of a strange desire to please him. I had let him suck on my breasts, and bite at them. He only stopped when a group of three drunk lads from the village stumbled down the riverbank near us. The storyteller had pulled my dress back up, and ordered me back to bed, as if being out there had been my idea. The rest of the week I had struggled to hide the blue teeth-marks he had left on my breasts from my aunt and the other women bathing at the river.
Back then I had not been anyone important. I was a poor, orphaned ward of my aunt and uncle, and my looks had singled me out and put me in danger. Now, betrothed to a Duke, who somehow aspired to be King, I was someone these seamstresses admired. Ironically, now that I had every reason to be called a whore, I was being called a Lady.
