The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy Page 43

  His whole body seemed to vibrate on the cross. The buttocks rose and fell in spasms, revealing the base of the phallus.

  And when he was a deep shade of rosy pink from his pubic hair to his ankles, and chest and stomach were well latticed with swelling ribbons of pink, the Captain drew up to the side of the cross and, taking only the end five or six inches of the strap, lashed the Prince’s bouncing cock with it. The Prince strained and pumped on the cross, the iron weight dangling, the cock growing huge and almost purple in color.

  The Captain stopped. He looked down into the Prince’s eyes and laid his hand on the Prince’s forehead again. “Not such a bad whipping, was it, Laurent?” he asked. The Prince’s chest heaved. The men throughout the camp laughed softly. “Except that you will receive it again at dawn, and then at noon, and then at twilight.”

  Another burst of laughter. The Prince sighed deeply and the tears rolled down the side of his face.

  “I hope the Queen gives you to me,” said the Captain softly.

  He snapped his fingers for Beauty to follow him into the tent. And as she crawled on her hands and knees into the warm light beneath the white canvas, an officer walked quickly past her.

  “I wish to be alone now,” the Captain said to the man.

  Beauty settled to the side of the doorway meekly.

  “Captain,” the officer said, dropping his voice, “I don’t know that this can wait. The last patrol came in moments ago while you were whipping the runaway.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, they didn’t find the Princess, Sir. But they swear they saw horsemen in the forest tonight.”

  The Captain, who had settled on his elbows at a little writing table, looked up. “What?” he asked, incredulously.

  “Sir, they swear they saw and heard them. A large party, they said.” The soldier drew near to the table.

  Through the open door, she saw the Prince’s hands twitching under their ropes on the back of the cross and his buttocks riding up and down still, as if he could not settle into his punishment.

  “Sir,” said the officer, “he is almost sure that they were raiders.”

  “But they wouldn’t dare to come again this soon,” the Captain waved it away. “And on a moonlit night. I don’t believe it.”

  “But, Sir, it’s only the quarter moon. And it has been two years since their last raid. The sentry says he heard something too, near the camp only moments ago.”

  “You’ve doubled the watch!”

  “Yes, Sir, I doubled it right away.”

  The Captain’s eyes narrowed. He cocked his head to the side.

  “Sir, they were walking their horses through the woods, the soldiers said, without light. And with as little sound as possible. It must be them!”

  The Captain considered. “All right, break camp. Get the runaway mounted on the cart and head back to the village. Send a messenger ahead to double the watch on the towers. But I don’t want the village alarmed. This is probably nothing.” He paused, obviously considering. “It’s useless to search the coast tonight,” he said.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “It’s almost impossible to search all those coves even by daylight. But we’ll go out tomorrow.”

  He rose angrily as the officer withdrew. He snapped his fingers for Beauty to come to him, and giving her a harsh kiss, he threw her up over his shoulders. “No time for you tonight, pet, not here,” he said and squeezed her hip as he carried her.

  It was midnight when they returned to the Inn, riding well ahead of the others.

  Beauty was thinking of all she had heard and seen, stimulated against her will by Laurent’s suffering. And she couldn’t wait to tell Prince Roger or Prince Richard what she had heard about the strange riders in the night, and ask what it meant.

  But there was no chance for this.

  Entering the hot, cheerful din of the drinking room, the Captain gave her over at once to the soldiers at the table nearest the door. And before she knew it she sat spread-legged on the lap of a lovely brawny young man with copper hair, her hips bounced down on a gorgeous thick cock, while a pair of hands from behind massaged her nipples.

  As the hours passed, the Captain kept close watch on her. But he was often in fast conversation with his men. And many soldiers came and went in a hurry.

  When Beauty grew drowsy he took her from the men and had her mounted high on a cask on the wall, her sex pressed to the rough wood, her hands bound over her head, her vision clouded as she turned her head to sleep, the crowd shimmering beneath her.

  She thought again and again of the runaways. Who was the Princess Lynette who had reached the border, the same tall blond Princess who years before had so tormented Beauty’s beloved Alexi in her little circus performance for the Court at the castle? And where was she now? Clothed and safe in another Kingdom? Beauty should envy her, she thought, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even think of it with any concentration. And her mind returned again and again, without judgment or fear, or even thought, to the stunning image of Prince Laurent mounted on the cross, his massive torso throbbing under the strap, his buttocks riding the wooden phallus.

  She slept.

  Yet it seemed that sometime before morning she saw Tristan. But that must have been a dream. Beautiful Tristan kneeling at the door of the Inn, looking up at her. His golden hair fell almost to his shoulders, and his large blue-violet eyes gazed up at her with the most complete affection.

  She wanted so to talk to him, to tell him how strangely content she was. But then the vision of Tristan was gone, as surely as it had come. She must have been dreaming.

  Through her dreams came Mistress Lockley’s voice, in low conversation with the Captain. “Pity that poor Princess,” she said, “if they are out there. But so soon, I can scarce believe they’d try it.”

  “I know,” the Captain answered. “But they can come anytime. They can strike the manor houses and the farms and be off before we even know it in the village. That’s what they did two years ago. That’s why I’ve doubled the watch, and we’ll be patrolling until this is settled.”

  Beauty opened her eyes. But they had moved away from under the keg and she could no longer hear them.

  PENITENTIAL PROCESSION

  WHEN BEAUTY awoke, it was late afternoon and she was alone in the Captain’s bed. A loud roaring came from the square below, with the slow chilling beat of a deep drum. In spite of the alarm that the drum sounded in her soul, she thought of the chores she should have done. She sat up in panic.

  But immediately Prince Roger calmed her with a little gesture. “The Captain said for you to sleep late,” he said. He had the broom in his hands, but he was looking out of the window.

  “What is it?” Beauty asked. She could feel the reverberation of the drum in her belly. And the steady beat filled her with dread. Seeing no one else in the room, she climbed to her feet and came up beside Prince Roger.

  “Only the runaway Prince Laurent,” he said, putting his arm around Beauty as he pulled her close to the thick little panes. “Being wheeled through the village.”

  Beauty pressed her forehead to the glass. Below in a great loose crowd of villagers she saw a giant two-wheeled cart being pulled around the well, not by horses, but slaves in bits and harnesses.

  The flushed face of Prince Laurent, bound to the cross with his legs straight out, his protuberant sex as hard as ever, stared straight up at Beauty. She saw his eyes wide and seemingly still, the mouth quivering on the thick leather that bound the head flat to the top of the beam, the bound legs shuddering with the cart’s uneven movement.

  The sight riveted her even more strongly than it had the night before, from this new perspective. She watched the slow progression of the cart and looked at the odd expression on the Prince’s face, so devoid of panic. The roaring of the crowd was as bad as it had been at the auction. And as the cart turned round the well and back towards the Sign of the Inn now, Beauty saw the victim fully from the front and she winced at the welt
s and bands of reddened flesh that covered the insides of his legs, his chest, and his belly. Two whippings more he’d had and a third promised.

  But an even more disturbing sight absorbed her as she realized that one of the six slaves harnessed to the cart was Tristan. He was passing directly beneath her again, and it was Tristan without mistake, his thick golden hair shimmering in the sun, his head pulled back by the bit in his mouth, his knees rising sharply. And streaming out from the cleft of his handsomely shaped rump was a sleek black horsetail. No one had to tell her what held it in place. It was the phallus inside him.

  Beauty covered her face with her hands, but she felt the familiar secretion between her legs, the first clarion of the day’s torments and raptures.

  “Don’t be so foolish,” said Prince Roger. “The runaway Prince deserves it. Besides, his punishment hasn’t even begun. The Queen has refused to see him and has sentenced him to four years in the village.”

  Beauty was thinking of Tristan. She felt his cock inside her. And she felt a mad fascination in seeing him trussed and pulling the cart, and seeing that appalling tail dangling behind him. It confused her and made her feel she had betrayed him.

  “Well, maybe that is what the runaway wanted,” Beauty sighed, speaking of Laurent. “He was contrite enough last night, however.”

  “Or maybe it’s what he thinks he wanted,” said Roger. “He has the turntable now to suffer, then round through the village again, and the turntable again, before he’s handed over to the Captain.”

  The procession circled the well another time, the drum causing Beauty’s nerves almost to snap. Again she saw Tristan, marching almost proudly at the head of the team, and the sight of his genitals, and the weights hung on his nipples, and his beautiful face pulled up by the leather bit caused a little torrent of passion inside her.

  “Normally the soldiers march fore and aft,” Prince Roger said as he picked up his broom again. “I wonder where they are today.”

  “Looking for mysterious raiders,” she thought, but she didn’t say it. Now that she had her chance alone with Roger to ask about these things, she was too enthralled by the procession.

  “You’re to go on down to the yard and rest on the grass,” said the Prince.

  “Rest again?”

  “The Captain won’t have you worked today. And tonight, he’s hiring you out to Nicolas, the Queen’s Chronicler.”

  “Tristan’s Master!” Beauty whispered. “He’s asked for me?”

  “Paid for you in good coin of the realm,” said Roger. He went on with his sweeping. “Go ahead down,” he said to her.

  And her heart pounding, she watched the procession move slowly into the broad lane that led back to the other end of the village.

  TRISTAN AND BEAUTY

  SHE COULDN’T wait until dark.

  The hours dragged as she was bathed, combed, and oiled roughly but as thoroughly as she had ever been at the castle. Of course she might not see Tristan tonight. But she was going to the place where Tristan lodged! She could not quiet herself.

  Finally darkness descended on the village.

  And Prince Richard, “the good little boy,” she thought, with a smile, was ordered to take her to Nicolas, the Chronicler.

  The Inn was strangely empty, though all else in the deepening twilight seemed regular. Lights flickered in the pretty little windows along the narrow lanes; the spring air was fragrant and sweet. Prince Richard let her march fairly slowly, only now and then telling her to show a little more spirit, or they both would be whipped. He walked behind her with the strap, only occasionally licking her.

  She could see wives and husbands at table through low windows, naked slaves rising from their knees in quick darting motions to set plates or pitchers before them. Slaves bound to the walls moaned and pumped vainly.

  “But something is different,” she said as they came into a broader street, full of fine houses, almost every iron bracket with its manacled slave hanging beside the door, some tightly bound and gagged, others in quiet obedience.

  “No soldiers,” Richard said under his breath. “And please be quiet. You’re not supposed to talk. We’ll both finish at the Punishment Shop.”

  “But where are they?” Beauty asked.

  “Do you want a licking?” he threatened. “They’re all out searching the coast and the forest for some imagined raiding party. I don’t know what it means, but don’t breathe a word. It’s a secret.”

  But they had come to Nicolas’s door. Richard was leaving her. A maid greeted Beauty and ordered her down on her hands and knees. And in a frenzy of anticipation, Beauty was led right through a fine little house and down a narrow side corridor.

  A door was opened for her, and the maid bid her go in and closed the door behind her.

  Beauty could scarcely believe her eyes when she looked up and saw Tristan before her. He reached out with both hands and lifted her to her feet. Beside him stood the tall figure of his Master, Nicolas, whom Beauty remembered well enough from the auction.

  Her face was crimson when she looked at the man, because both she and Tristan were standing and embracing each other.

  “Calm yourself, Princess,” he said in an almost caressing voice. “You may remain as long as you like with my slave, and in this room you are free to be with each other as you please. You will return to your regular servitude when you leave me.”

  “0, my Lord,” Beauty whispered, and dropped to her knees to kiss his boots.

  He allowed this courtesy, and then left them both. And Beauty rose and flew into Tristan’s arms, Tristan’s mouth opening to devour her kisses ravenously.

  “Sweet little one, beautiful little one,” Tristan said, his lips feeding upon her throat and her face, his organ pushing against her naked belly.

  His body seemed almost polished in the dim light of the candles, his golden hair lustrous. She looked up into those beautiful violet-blue eyes and rose on tiptoe to mount him as she had done in the slave cart.

  She threw her arms around his neck and forced her dilated sex onto his cock, feeling him seal himself against her. Slowly, he sank back on the green satin coverlet of a little oak-paneled bed. And stretching out on the pillows, he threw back his head as she rode him.

  His hands lifted her breasts, pinched her nipples, and held them throbbing as she bucked and reared on his sex, sliding up as high as she could without losing the shaft and plummeting down, her lips dipping to kiss him.

  Tristan’s face went dark with his groans, and as she felt the cock erupt under her, she came, bucking still, until she was transfixed, her legs outstretched, shimmering with the last shocks of the pleasure.

  They lay together arm in arm and slowly he wiped her hair back from her head, whispering, “My darling Beauty,” as he kissed her.

  “Tristan, why is your Master letting us do this?” she asked. But she was in a sweet drowsy state and she did not really care. Candles burned on the little table beside the bed. She saw the light swell and obliterate the objects of the room except for the golden surface of a large mirror.

  “He’s a man of mysteries and secrets and strange intensity,” Tristan said. “He will do exactly as he pleases. And it pleases him to let me see you, and it will please him tomorrow probably to have me whipped through the village. And very possibly he thinks that the one will enhance the torment of the other.”

  The remembrance of Tristan, harnessed and horse-tailed, came back to Beauty unbidden. “I saw you,” she whispered flushing suddenly. “In the procession.”

  “Did it seem so terrible?” he whispered comfortingly, kissing her. There was a faint blush on his cheeks that in a face so strong was irresistible.

  She was amazed. “You didn’t find it terrible?” she asked.

  A low laugh came from deep in his chest. She pulled the golden hair that curled up from around his cock to his belly.

  “Yes, my darling,” he said, “it was deliciously terrible!”

  She laughed as she looked into
his eyes, and she kissed him again greedily. She snuggled down, kissing and biting at his nipples. “It tantalized me to see it,” she confessed, her voice throaty and not her own. “I only prayed you were somehow resigned ...”

  “I am more than resigned, my love,” he said, kissing the top of her head as he lay back under her affectionate bites. She mounted his left thigh and pressed her sex against it. He gasped as she bit at his nipple, pinching the other in time with her little bites. And then he tumbled her down on the sheets and opened her mouth again with his tongue.

  “But tell me,” she insisted, stopping his kiss for a moment, his organ grazing her mound, pressing the tight curling hair against its grain gently. “You must,” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “How could you ... ? The harnesses and the bit, and that horsetail ... How have you come to this, this acceptance?” She didn’t need him to tell her he was resigned. She could see it and feel it, and she had seen it today in the procession. But she remembered him in the cart when they had come down from the castle, and she had felt the fear in him then that he was too proud to reveal freely.

  “I’ve found my Master,” he said, “the one who brings me into harmony with all punishments,” Tristan said. “But if you must know,” he started kissing her again, his organ opening her nether lips and pushing at her clitoris. “It was, and will always be, utter mortification.”

  Beauty lifted her hips to receive him. They were at once rocking in unison, Tristan gazing down at her, his arms like pillars supporting his powerful shoulders above her. She lifted her head to suck from his nipples, her hands pinching and parting his buttocks, feeling the hard delicious knots of the welts and measuring them and compressing them as she drew closer to the silky wrinkled lip of his anus. His motions grew swifter, rougher, more agitated as she delved. And suddenly reaching to the table beside her, she pulled one of the thick waxen candles from its silver holder, whipping out the flame and pressing the melted tip with her fingers. And then she plunged it into him, planting it firmly inside. His eyes squeezed shut. Her own sex became a taut sheath against his organ, her clitoris toughening, exploding. And cranking the waxen candle hard she cried out, feeling his hot fluids empty into her.