Many thanks as usual to EmmaKendrick01 for offering her thoughts on the chapter!
*****
The water of the Grand Canal sloshed against the
Cerulean
as it knifed slowly towards the pier. Gwennalyn stood on the deck, looking out at their destination, the platform still several yards away, a small gaggle of waiting figures visible. Her mind was inundated with images of what had happened the last time she had seen two of those figures.
It had been a month and a week since the orcs had departed from her father's castle. The night before they had left, Brand and Brash had given their guards the chance to gang-fuck the princess. Their rough attention had by the end of the night turned her into a mewling, mindless wreck, body coated and lashed and decorated with streaks of semen, nethers dripping seemingly endless streams of wasted seed. She had been so ravaged that she had slept throughout the following day, missing the farewell feast, her handmaiden having covered for her with the usual 'womanly concerns' excuse that always worked so well on her father.
For the first few weeks after that night, Gwennalyn had found it exceedingly hard to not think about the experience. Her thoughts flitted back so quickly to the sensations and emotions from that night, and her overactive imagination created new situations in which she might submit again to the same illicit pleasures. During dinner, she might think about a lustful orc striding into the hall, bending her over the table, rucking up her dress to claim her sodden sex. During her father's announcements, the guards in attendance would become orcs, rushing over to drag her to the center of the room, a gangbang commencing right in front of the throne. Even during worship, she would find herself helplessly fantasizing, the priests droning on about obeying the will of the gods while the princess could only think about obeying the will of a dominant orc. Many times throughout the day she would find her hand straying to the hem of her dress or her thighs rubbing subtly together. The time spent under the brother's sway meant that she had become used to their abuse, and this time after their departure meant that she sometimes found herself aching for that same abuse.
After those first few weeks, it had become easier to not think about it. And once the weeks turned into a month, she had found it even easier to deal with the ache for more subjugation, the experience further removed.
Two things had helped her cope.
The first was her handmaiden, who had become her nightly bedmate. The older woman was eager to please and be pleased, which delighted Gwennalyn. The only disappointment was that Deiara was no well-hung orc.
The second was the letter that had reached the castle a week or so after the orcs had departed.
She had been in the royal garden, reading about King Floreas, the kingdom's founder, when one of her father's attendants had come to collect her, bringing her with an urgent anxiety to his study.
"My dear daughter," her father had said, his voice thick with emotion, "read this."
He had slid a letter across the table to her.
Her father's surge of emotion had worried her, whereas the seal on the accompanying envelope, that of Captain Lancear, had made her fight back a sigh, sure that it was some dull ballad or half-hearted attempt at romance from Lucien, her husband-to-be.
It was neither.
My good and wise King, I write to you with a humble request. I know my father has been planning an expedition to the Southern Isles to curtail the surge in piracy that has waylaid the good seafarers of the kingdom. My request is to be granted a command in this expedition. Before you decide, I implore you to read further. I am aware that the union between myself and your daughter, whose beauty and grace knows no bounds, is impending, and that certain details need to be arranged. I ask only a delay in the proceedings, for but one reason. As my father's son, I am worthy of your daughter. My father and you are great friends, and that in and of itself makes us a perfect match. But I feel I am not worthy of your daughter as myself. Were my father any other man, I would be a poor match. I say this not for an attempt at charming self-deprecation, nor to dare at insulting my father and you and the match you have made. My request for a command comes out of a desire to prove myself, to my future wife, to my King, and to my kingdom. I do not ask for the first command, or even a captaincy, as my inexperience could lead to woe for the men under me. I only ask for some sort of command, so that when the time comes that I wed your daughter under the watchful gaze of the gods, I do so as a man who is worthy of her. I await your decision, which I know shall be wise and just. Your subject, and soon-to-be son, Lucien Lancear.
The impassioned plea had won her father over. She had fought back a giddy shriek when he had told her of his decision to grant the request in the letter. When she had made it back to her chambers, she had let loose several delighted shouts, dancing around happily at the good news.
Several days later, she had received a letter herself from Lucien.
My dear Gwennalyn, I feel I must be truthful to you. I know that you do not want this union to happen, and although I will do my duty to my King and my father, I am of a similar mind. As such, I requested this command. I was not entirely deceitful towards your father with my intentions, as I do wish to prove myself, but only to myself. This command will grant us stays, and although I fear they are temporary, we perhaps may arrive at some better chance, or think on some solution that might free us from each other. With respect and admiration, Lucien Lancear.
She had always found him droll and dull. This missive did not change her mind, but it did give her a newfound respect for him.
Over the following days, she had found herself flouncing around the castle, happy now that she could push the wedding away in her mind. The expedition would take time, and as such she would be free for longer. Her father had a few times commented on her perplexing happiness.
"I shall have a husband worthy of me," she would tell him each time, "and that makes me happy."
The princess did her best to not think about how the delay was only temporary.
The
Cerulean
docked, and Gwennalyn turned to join her family as they debarked.
She did her best to hide her excitement. Here, she could forget entirely about Lucien and their impending nuptials. All she needed to do was submit and obey.
Brand and Brash were mostly silent during the introductions, only offering perfunctory greetings when called upon. She fell back to walk alongside them during the trek into the castle, to see if they might reveal some plans to her then, but they kept to themselves.
Her father and mother were directed to their chambers, and the princess' was on the level below.
"We don't have an adjoining room," the attendant told her handmaiden, "so your room is down the hall."
Deiara headed off, leaving the princess alone.
Gwennalyn sighed, wondering what plan the brothers had in store for her. The bed drew her eye, so she sat down, testing the mattress.
Wonder if it can handle a dozen orcs.
That salacious thought bouncing around in her head, she set herself to unpacking, readying her outfits for the week.
After a few minutes, a knock came at her door.
Her handmaiden was on the other side, leaning against the doorjamb, smirking.
In moments, the door was shut, the two women tumbling onto the bed. Hands grabbed at clothes to uncover bare flesh; the princess was faster, lifting her handmaiden's skirt to find her panties, tearing them off to reveal that ripe cunt. Over the last month or so, she had tasted its sweet tang practically every day. This day, even spent in another nation, would be no different.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
There were many differences between humans and orcs, and Gwennalyn often delighted in cataloguing them. For one example, she had found that orcs, by and large, were more straight-forward as a people, more willing to get to the point, as opposed to many humans she knew, who tiptoed around sensitive issues and used vague language.
Another difference was in their feasts.
All the feasts that Gwennalyn had attended were less about the actual feasting, and more about an excuse for the nobles and elites to get together and talk about nothing. Although her father always made sure to provide a sumptuous spread, oftentimes much of the food would go untouched, and end up donated to an orphanage or some other worthy place.
This was the first orcish feast that she had attended, and it was obvious that for the orcs, the entire point was the feasting. Any conversation had during the meal was short and terse.
This emphasis on eating first over socialization suited her perfectly. She always hated the vacuous discussions that were common at feasts. And whereas her father's feasts boasted more delicate and light fare, the tables in the orcish hall were laden with all sorts of sumptuous and decadent foodstuffs.
So she gorged happily.
