Author's Comments:
This is a story of an unlikely pair and their thinly veiled lust hidden under layers intention. This story features themes of rough sex, adultery, impregnation, and rather rough behavior in general. Princess Arabelle is a bored royal in a loveless marriage who craves excitement in all the wrong places. When the infamous and murderous barbarian Aldrat is taken captive in her castle, her curiosity gets the better of her.
Thanks to my editors Kenjisato and CraggyMike!
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Aldrat the Despoiler: A Princess' Fantasy
Only the most prolific of stories spread like wildfire throughout the humble Kingdom of Valenholme. No tales burdened in tedium made it more than a village over. While recollections of heroic deeds were some of the most cherished; frightful retellings of cruelty, horror, and violence were the most pervasive.
This proved true with the tales of Aldrat the Despoiler. The brutal man sworn to Carneth, the God of Chaos and Deceit, had a reputation for dark, violent deeds. It was told he had a disfigured form, born of deep scars and rotten flesh. Survivors of his battles told of muscle-bound beast of a man, capable of ripping a foe in two. Chilling recollections of women and children screaming in terror at the sight of his blood-soaked frame charging their village, haunted an entire nation.
Aldrat was leading a campaign of terror across the East Marches, burning whole towns to the ground, at the head of his horde. There was little aim or logic to the bloodshed. The Despoiler simply went from town to town, sowing this chaos with little regard.
Amidst this razing, he left few alive, and few more escaped to tell the story of it. Aldrat cared not for the story, but regardless, it spread faster than his carnage.
Corpses laid in testament across Valenholme, peasants and nobles alike, cruelly hewn by Aldrat and his brigands. Equally as cruel as his soul, was his weapon— a hooked and rusted seax. In battle, he would wave it around his head like a whirlwind of gore, cutting through whole troops of soldiers as they futilely defended their homelands.
But the true horror, that laid in the whispers of his deeds, was the raping. Women were often Aldrat's mark, a reputation built on taking his pleasure with them amongst the chaos. It was told he took the virtue of a town's worth of fresh maidens personally; after, he would discard them, leaving them for scraps with the rest of his men. The stories claimed he collected girls like playthings, until he tired of them. Just a useful set of holes to the barbaric marauder.
Tales and rumors of this collective nightmare plagued the kingdom. Horrific stories like a tidal wave from mouth to mouth amongst the King's subjects. Even as far as Celestidel, the seat of the Kingdom of Valenholme, at the midafternoon tea of one Princess Arabelle Redus.
The firstborn daughter of the King craved stories and rumors. She lived to hear the tales brought to her by knights errant, merchants, or troubadours visiting her father's court. It was about the only thing that kept her living. Every new visitor was a present, the princess insisting they join her for tea. Arabelle was known for hosting lavish brunches in the courtyard, just to listen to every whisper they carried with them. The "Princess' Tales" as they were known amongst the servants of the castle.
Of late, the Princess' Tales had featured a lot of Aldrat the Despoiler. Despite its saturation, she would hear every last detail she could get of his evil deeds.
It was known that the princess wished to be spared no detail, no matter how uncomfortable. Thus, the word of the brigand's inhuman cruelty to his female victims had found the fair princess' ears unwavering and keenly interested. Those who recollected the gruesome details were often more bothered by it than she was.
Much to the dismay of her guests, she demanded to hear about every gruesome fucking, every deflowered maiden, and each slave to Aldrat's cock. Arabelle collected the tales of all the chaos Aldrat spread, relishing in the details as she squirmed in her seat.
Why shouldn't she be enticed by such stories? Life was a bore in the castle of her father. Thus, her favorite stories were always the dark ones. Those tales that went down a rougher path of depraved sexual action, especially made her stir. It was rumored that her marriage to the Duke of Greenham was the source of her boredom. It was no secret that after four years of being wed, the princess had yet to bear a child.
But few knew the cruel truth of it, that he left her entirely unsatisfied. The Duke was more content to go off on hunts or play games of wit with his merry men, than to bed the beautiful Arabelle with his meager sword.
Rumors were all she had. And if she was not hearing rumors, she was spreading them. The court of Valenholme was often festering with salacious gossip. From stable maids to elder noblewomen, no one was safe from the twisting of words fed from the princess' mechanism of tittle-tattle. So deftly she dispersed these tales, be it truth or not, that no one was the wiser as to their origin. Whether it was tales of scandalous infidelity, corruption, or hurtful deceit, Arabelle spread them. Often, she had little reason to do so other than the sheer entertainment of the havoc it caused.
Few suspected she was the culprit of it all. The princess enjoyed most suspicion that couldn't quite be proven. Often, her playful grins made her feel just one step ahead of them all, as their reputations were torn to shreds for her amusement or gain.
Arabelle was jaded with boredom, and little could break her of it. That was until the day word reached the castle, that Aldrat the Despoiler had been captured. The knights of the kingdom shrewdly countered his mindless violence with strategic action.
But the most tantalizing fact was that he was being brought to Celestidel to face judgment.
Upon learning of this, she had every intention witnessing the moment they drug him through the gate. The subject of so many stories that had tantalized her to her core, would be in her very home.
"Your Highness, I must insist you return to your quarters." The knight guardians of her family were irritatingly protective of her. They acted as if the mere sight of Aldrat would strike her feeble, feminine form down.
Arabelle knew she was made of solid stuff, even if she played the part of the fair lady well.
A dismissive wave of her hand ended any discussion of it. The elder knight of the guard huffed, irked by the princess' dismissiveness. Arabelle looked at him from the side of her eye, she was certain she had spread some tale about his wife and her muff-warts not too long ago. It was simple retribution for her snide remark about the late night activities of one of Arabelle's handmaids. She was, at least, protective of her own.
Standing just inside the gates of the keep, she listened to the chainfall before they creaked open. The giant forged gate, made by smiths a millennia ago, soon let what little daylight was left stream through. Sounds of struggle and chain clatter crept into her home.
It took no less than five men to wrangle Aldrat across the threshold of the keep. Chains were wrapped around his neck, arms, and legs as they pulled him. He was a giant, at least half a body taller than the guards around him. His frame dwarfed all other men that Arabelle had seen.
"Your Highness, please back away for your safety!" The older knight put a hand on the bare shoulder above the cutoff of her gown.
It was quickly removed, when it was met with a glance that could pierce all glances. Arabelle's striking green eyes could cut through most men, the elder knight guardian included. But as she continued to watch Aldrat being dragged across the foyer of her home, much to the dismay of her guards; she knew her glance would be nothing to him.
Unlike the tales, he did not have a deformed body of rotten flesh. Each muscle and stretch of bare skin was chiseled, almost like a statue of an old glorified hero. He wore little in the way of clothing, save for a pelt around his waist. She was thankful for that, as Arabelle could drink in the sight of him all she wanted. Her eyes feasted on each stretch of tanned skin he bore. While there certainly were scars, it only added to the aesthetic. He bore many tattoos across his chest, arms, and face. Dark marks of the god Carneth that blessed Aldrat's endeavors as a warrior.
For a brief second, their eyes met. The brutish hulk of a figure standing still in the foyer of her home as they looked at each other. Each feasted on the sight of the other's body, Aldrat being more overtly aroused at the sight of the fair-bodied princess. His sickening grin directed at Arabelle spurning on the guards around him.
"Common yew scum!" One knight struck him on the back with the pommel of his sword. The barbarian hardly flinched, licking his lips as he looked at the princess.
Arabelle held her chin high, watching as they carried him away deep in the dungeon. Their grunts and shouts faded away as she processed the sight of the monstrous man.
—-
Night set in, and the flickering candle in her hand was all the light Arabelle could use to find the rough-hewn stone step spiraling down. She eventually found the torch-lit landing of the dungeon after several long, twisting moments through the damp shadows.
