Beauty's Kingdom Page 16

  “And where do you live now?” I asked, as if I’d been talking not thinking, and though my question startled him, he answered politely enough.

  “I have a townhouse now, Prince, that His Majesty has given me. I’m grateful. It’s more comfortable than any lodgings I’ve ever had.”

  As we walked on, finally, to the Place of Public Punishment, he pointed out the house, a narrow but grand three-story building, which had once been the house of Nicholas the Queen’s Chronicler and his sister.

  I remembered the Queen’s Chronicler. He’d been a dreary miserable man during my years here, as he’d lost Prince Tristan, whom he loved with all his soul. He was held up to ridicule, but in whispers, as someone who had been foolish enough to ruin his heart on a slave.

  I knew now that Tristan had eventually returned to the kingdom. Alexi’s letters had mentioned this and so had the letters from the King. Tristan had his own fine manor house, and the King had indicated that I might want such a place of my own.

  At last we came to the great fairgrounds that I’d been thinking about since news of the new kingdom had come to me.

  I stood still as we left the paved street that had led us here so that I could take it all in.

  It was the very same, yet utterly transformed. The old beaten earth was gone, and the stone paving went on forever, and once again it was swept and clean.

  To the far right I saw three of the great maypoles, with the slaves tethered to long leather ribbons by their necks, forced to run in circles by those handsomely dressed grooms in special village livery, it seemed, who paddled them—and as before, the wheels to which slaves were strapped, spread-eagled, who might be turned upside down by a patron for a small coin. It was not the worst of punishment by any means, but it was frightening, and I had known it in my last six months, but I had been a very different slave by then from the one first brought here in terror and shame.

  The slaves squealed and cried as the giant wheels turned, males as well as females, and of course the patrons teased them with little whisk brooms as they had in my time, but these now looked not so much like improvised or household tools, but like gaily beribboned trinkets sold here for the purpose and I soon saw that they were.

  A slave forced to squat and walk behind a peddler carried two full baskets of such brooms for sale, on a long pole.

  And all over, everywhere, were the bright striped tents—tents as I knew for having one’s slave bathed, tents for having a slave male or female for a small payment, tents merely to look, or to watch or to spank.

  But novelties had been added, or so it seemed. I saw a booth where female slaves were kneeling on a shelf, their hindquarters bared, of course, to the crowd, who bought three and four yellow balls at a time to hurl at them to see who might strike the heart of the target, which was, naturally, the anus of the slave. The backsides of these unfortunates were painted with brightly colored target stripes in what seemed like a thick adhesive paste, and I soon saw that some of the balls stuck to the targets in question, and the players argued spiritedly about who was better than whom in scoring at the game.

  Seemed obvious enough to me.

  As we walked about, we came to the rear of this tent, where I saw the heads of the bent-over slaves, fixed into a long yellow-painted wooden pillory, faces down, hands clenching and unclenching. I wondered did it hurt much when the ball struck one’s backside. Likely not all that much. Again, it wasn’t the worst punishment for a slave, but I knew those subjected to it would feel a thrilling shame nevertheless.

  Variety was the spice of the kingdom.

  “I heard this was a very dusty place and rather crude in the old days,” said Alexi. “I only saw it once before the King and Queen came.”

  “Well, that was true,” said Captain Gordon, “but truthfully, my lord, lots of the Court came down here just to see it from time to time, though they didn’t let on to the old queen. It was supposed to be for the common people only, but look at the crowd now.”

  He was right. The area was milling with all manner of persons, from the finest and most ornately dressed to the simplest, but I could see that the gentry outnumbered the simple folk.

  Yes, gaily dressed village boys and girls were lined up before the tents with their coins ready, but plenty of the richer men and women regarded this as a feast for the eyes. I saw dark-haired Prince Roger moving through the crowd—no mistake, it was he—whom I’d briefly known in my time in the village, but he did not see me, and I did not feel moved now to speak to him. That would occur naturally enough later on.

  And it was larger, all of this. Much larger.

  Only now as we moved through a field of high tents did I see the Public Turntable coming into view.

  Like all else, it had been refurbished and ornamented. No more the crude wood ladder up which slaves had been driven to be paddled, but now there was a gilded stair. The great turntable itself was trimmed in dagged leather of many colors, and the great whipping master himself, who had always been a rotund and crude fellow with rolled-up sleeves and bulging arms, was now in a smart livery of gray and yellow—like all the grooms who paddled the maypole slaves, and pushed and directed other slaves all about.

  But the whipping master was nevertheless a huge man, and I could hear the rumble of his deep, laughing voice from where I stood. He had a head of long flowing hair and enormous shoulders.

  There was a row of unfortunates lined up to be paddled for the crowd on one side and on the other an endless row of gilded wooden pillories where slaves would be taken after their whippings to be displayed, bent over from the waist.

  A huge burst of collective laughter erupted from the tents behind us. I turned, and only then realized that indeed I was near dizzy, my senses flooded with scents, sounds, and sights.

  The Captain steadied me again, but very respectfully.

  “Dmitri, we don’t have to remain here,” said Alexi.

  “Oh, but I want to see it,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll see it’s changed,” said the Captain softly and he kept his firm hand on my arm. I didn’t mind it. I didn’t care.

  My cock was like a brick in my trousers. And I felt my nipples tingling and burning inside my shirt. Herms. Hermaphrodites. I heard the voice of the scholar.

  “. . . an ancient idea, of an ideal creature who combined the traits of male and female . . .”

  “Here, my lord,” said the Captain. “Drink this wine.”

  “The last thing I need in this sunshine,” I said.

  “It’s weak, but it’s very cold.”

  I did drink it.

  In a daze, I saw a slave girl before us with a pitcher. And I knew that she had offered the cup. Hair the color of copper flowing over her shoulders; such a wealth of it, she seemed scarcely to be naked. If I’d been her master or mistress, I would have tied up her hair.

  Her breasts were plump and delicious but pink as though they’d been gently spanked or whipped. I saw she had a phallus tucked into her with a large crest of flowers positioned right in front of her pubic lips, the whole held in place by thin straps leading to a belt that circled her waist.

  How did I know there was a phallus there hidden inside of her? I could tell by the way she twitched and moved even as she stood still, her face flooded with a lovely blush and her eyes glazed.

  She looked shyly at me as she refilled the cup.

  “That is good,” I said as I drank another deep gulp.

  There came more laughter from the tents behind us.

  “Oh, those games!” said Alexi.

  I didn’t want to see that now, though I knew I would want to see all of the tents later.

  I wanted only to see the turntable, and the Captain, I realized suddenly, was blocking my view.

  I stepped around him. The crowd was thickest near the turntable, possibly some fifteen or twenty deep before it thinned o
ut.

  There had been a break in the entertainment when we’d arrived, but the whipping master now motioned for a lovely princess or lady or “little girl” to come up the carpeted and gilded steps, and she did—sublimely flustered and blindingly succulent with rounded ivory limbs.

  The whipping master, even with his gray-and-yellow livery, wore a great leather apron, but it was worked all over with gilding and yellow designs against a gray background.

  The paddle in his hand was as I remembered, large and wooden, but it too was covered now in gold. And as he turned it this way and that for the roaring crowd, I saw that one side of the paddle was studded with what seemed tiny pearls.

  The other side, thankfully for the shivering little girl, was smooth.

  She had to kneel just as we had knelt—free, over from the waist with a small square pillar to support her chin. The pillar was carved and polished and had its share of gold worked into it, and there appeared to be a little cushion of some soft red stuff on the top. Not just the grainy wood.

  I pressed closer, but not too close. I didn’t want the men and women to block my view. I was back far enough where I might see all.

  The little girl obeyed the whipping master submissively and almost gracefully, at once clasping her hands in the small of her beautifully arched back. Her little hindquarters were exquisitely displayed, and no one came to bind her calves to the floor.

  Her little upturned face was very red, however, and her eyelids were fluttering. How I remembered my eyes being so tightly shut that first time, and yet they had kept opening, no matter what I did, no matter how many times I’d closed them, opening as if I had to see the crowds as well as hear them, the hundreds of people gathered there as they were gathered around now.

  A liveried groom stepped up with a large bowl in his yellow-gloved hands. Out of the bowl, he scooped a thick cream which he now applied to the hindquarters of the quivering girl, vigorously rubbing it into her flawless skin.

  The whipping master had wavy white hair and a florid complexion and he cried out something I couldn’t catch that made the crowd roar. He placed his large meaty hand on the girl’s neck, her soft long bronze curls spilling down in front of her on either side of the pillar where her chin rested.

  Then down came his merciless paddle, with the smooth side towards the girl, and he spanked her thighs so hard that he lifted her knees off the wood. The crowd cheered and clapped.

  One blow after another came at the girl in the same way, lifting her, forcing her up and off the wood, and letting her drop again, until finally she all but lost her balance and sank to the boards.

  I could hear the dark rumble of the man’s voice but not what he said.

  The girl scrambled to regain her position.

  And for the first time, by means of his foot pedal, the man spun the turntable to give the crowd to the far right a good look. Then back again, he turned her, as he was obviously right-handed, and down came the paddle again.

  “Prince,” the Captain whispered.

  It was a shock hearing his voice.

  I realized that I had put my hands to my lips.

  “Quiet, please, Captain, not now,” I said.

  A woman’s voice near me said, “Captain, he wishes to watch!”

  On went the spanking on the turntable, the girl’s tears flooding, but she did not break form. She couldn’t keep her calves still, or her feet; she was dancing, as they call it. She couldn’t help it. Dancing. But her little knees stayed in place.

  The table was spun again and again.

  The crowd was counting the blows aloud now and clapping loudly in time with each one.

  It was a fierce paddling, and the whipping master was loving it, and I knew what the girl was feeling, I knew how time had stopped for her, how the very concept of time was now beyond her reach. But I was awestruck at her control and her form. Memories paled and vanished in the bright glare of her perfect ivory skin, her little fingers twisting, but her hands never breaking form, and her sweet delicate face awash with glistening tears.

  I could scarcely breathe.

  Suddenly the whipping master raised the paddle and turned it. Now the darling little bottom would get the prickly pearls.

  The crowd cheered. The pearl-encrusted wood spanked her and she jumped helplessly and I thought I heard a high squeal come from her but in all the noise I couldn’t be sure. The crowd loved it, and random clapping broke out all over.

  Far off to my right I saw Prince Roger watching, with a handsome lady beside him.

  “And how many of you,” I whispered under my breath, “wish you were up there in her place?”

  No one could hear that faint whisper or so I prayed. But in truth I didn’t care.

  My memories for the moment were not present. I saw only her—jumping, dancing, struggling, but never breaking form, her breasts shivering, such tender breasts shivering. The nipples of my chest felt like they’d explode with heat. My cock might have come if I’d dare to move and risk its rubbing against my clothes.

  It was over. Now would come the part, I feared, that I truly loathed.

  But it didn’t happen.

  As she knelt shivering and sobbing, the crowd threw only gold coins at her, pelting her with them from all sides. She was lost in a rain of glittering coins.

  There was no refuse as there had been in my time, none of those rotten apples, and eggs or bits of potato or cabbage, pitched at her.

  I felt myself weak suddenly with relief. I hadn’t come, no, of course not, but my body had relinquished the heights and was settling down. My nipples throbbed and my legs were weak.

  “They don’t heave their garbage at the slave anymore,” I blurted out.

  “No, that’s not done now,” said the woman who was near me. “The King did away with that. He thought it vulgar and unnecessary and filthy as well. But anyone can buy little gilded wood tokens for a half penny to throw, and many do.”

  I glanced to my left to see her standing beside the Captain, one of those superb truly red-haired women who have clear blemish-free and creamy skin. She was very young and her fashionable gown revealed the fullness of her magnificent breasts exquisitely. Her green eyes were large and brilliant in the sun, and her lips were rouged. A peerless beauty, dressed in gaily printed silk and gold with glistening silk balloon sleeves. Even her slippers were gold, glinting in the sun.

  “Let me present Lady Eva, Prince,” said Alexi.

  “Ah, yes, my pleasure, my lady,” I said, but I kept glancing back to the turntable, and the incomparable Lady Eva gestured for me please to continue watching, and so I did.

  The little doe on the turntable was lifted now by her wrists, the whipping master twisting and turning her as if she were on the auction block for all to see her punished bottom and legs. Her waist was small and her hips shapely, but then all of her was shapely, even her writhing fingers, and her breasts, though smaller than those of many slaves, were finely shaped.

  The whipping master smacked her again forcing her hips forward, and she obviously cried out though I couldn’t hear it. But she was as dainty and graceful as ever, her head almost demure as she bent it to one side, her shimmering hair tumbling beautifully down, her eyes modest and half closed.

  How unlike in every conceivable way she was from the clumsy, struggling prince I’d been on the turntable long ago, time after time to the frustration of the Captain of the Guard. “You do realize you’ll be paddled here four times a day if you don’t stop struggling, don’t you?” he’d whispered in my ear that last night.

  A liveried groom, the very same who had prepared the girl’s hindquarters for spanking, rushed around gathering up all the tokens and coins.

  They were pushed into a little velvet sack and this was tied about her neck.

  “You see, the King will not allow anything soiled to be forced into the slave’s
mouth,” said the young woman at my elbow. “In the old days, they put the sack in the mouth, did they not?”

  “They certainly did,” I said. “Or in our backsides in the Punishment Shop.”

  “Well, that is not done now either,” she said without hesitation. Her voice was warm, it seemed all the voices of this realm were warm, but she spoke with an easy serenity that was a marvel. Lady Eva. I was struggling to remember some context for her name from the letters that I’d received.

  But a riot of memories was pressing in on me again.

  It was all tangled. I felt myself, naked, sore, crying, being rushed to the pillory just as I watched the dainty accomplished little slave being rushed down the steps and thrust over and forward, her head and hands locked securely as mine had been locked. Gilded wood, of course. Wood decorated with curlicues and white flowers! And this a pillory in the village, one out of an endless number. But her little head was the finest flower.

  Forgetting my manners, my friends, and the gracious lady beside me, I strode quickly through the loosening crowd and towards the distant pillory.

  I came up before her.

  Blue scarf. Wine. There it was again, those long-ago moments, as I was pilloried after each paddling. The Captain of the Guard had been so cross with me by sundown. “You are learning nothing, Prince.”

  I’d been so thirsty. And every time there had been the village girls with their cups of wine or cider or even milk, sweet white milk.

  She sobbed uncontrollably.

  Before I could turn and look for it, a tall slender male slave appeared beside me with a pitcher and cup.

  “My lord, she can only lap it, from the cup or your fingers,” he said as I shoved the coin into the leather purse he wore around his neck. Even his cock was half hard, his balls bound up tight to it, and the thin gold straps decorated with jeweled rosettes.

  “Yes, I know that, little boy, believe me,” I said.

  I held the silver cup under her face, and dipping my fingers, I moistened her quivering lips. But she was far too distressed to drink. I reached into my tunic pocket for a handkerchief, and mercifully found one with which I wiped her face and her eyes and her nose. Blue scarf.