Possessing Allura (13 page)

His fingers were long and gnarled, and he wore a long gray robe stitched with intricate designs of red and blue and gold, the colors of divine intercession. Ordinarily on such a happy occasion there would be flowers; white lilies arrayed about the place and rose petals on the floor, but for today there was only stark gray stone inset with gold candelabras, the equally stony faces of various saints looking down upon them from their rostrums.

The assemblage was equally stark. Representing the family of the bride was the hastily summoned regent, Grand Duke Fortragian, dressed for the occasion in purple velvet, with his gold medallion of office round his neck. On the other side, standing with the baron, was Rodolfo, who would serve as second witness and best man. Otherwise the chamber was empty of guests, having been carefully sealed by the baron's soldiers.

As a virgin the princess wore a gown of white, and the fact that it had to be made so hastily, yet fit her so perfectly was astonishing, and perhaps another piece of evidence that this sham wedding had been planned for some time. Baron Montreico had set her up, she was sure of it.

Allura could not argue the dress's beauty, though. Slung off the right shoulder, gathered tightly about her waist, it was both elegant and sensual. It was crafted from lace, silk and pressed flowers, interwoven to match a brocade in her hair, which was down, combed lustrously over her bare shoulders.

‘By the power of Hechira, Mother of the Gods,' declared the priest, summoning first the bride and her escort, ‘we invoke the fertility of womanhood.'

The grand duke, stiff and silent, moved arm in arm down the specially carpeted aisle with Allura; not what he'd expected for his grand niece, not by a long shot.

The priest held out a hand, directing them to their place in front of him, slightly to the left, and a young acolyte, perhaps nineteen, wearing a black robe, spread the incense at Allura's sandaled feet. The smell of jasmine and rosewood lifted sweetly to her nostrils, giving momentary hope that something redeeming might come from this travesty.

‘By the power of Zuranos, Father of the Gods, we invoke the spell of manhood.'

With this invitation the baron and his best man came forward from the rear of the temple. They wore tunics of black velvet, the baron's decorated with a gold lion upon his chest, the insignia of his house. Silver swords hung at both men's sides.

‘The Prayer of Uniting,' called the priest, raising his gray-robed, bony arms when the two men had taken their positions to his left, just across from Allura and her uncle.

Allura heard nothing of the spoken formula, or the priest's adlibbed words to follow. Her mind was essentially blank until she heard him call out that it was time for the consecration. The grand duke kissed her hand, offering a symbolic goodbye, while the best man knelt on one knee and bowed his head before her. Following these signs of homage both men retreated, taking up places well behind the bride and groom.

‘Do you,' the priest said to Allura, dispensing with a few more formalities, ‘pledge today, yourself, body and soul, without reservation, grievance or hesitancy to this man?'

She looked at him, her mouth dry, the blood pounding in her head. ‘I do,' pronounced her lips, quite without the authorization of her paralyzed brain.

‘And you,' he turned to the proud and unflappable baron. ‘Do you pledge yourself, body and soul, without reservation, grievance or hesitancy to this woman?'

‘I do not,' said the baron.

The priest acted as though he had not heard. ‘My son?'

‘I do not accept,' he pronounced once more, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to change his mind with every passing breeze.

Had he not been the one to arrange this service? Had he not been the one to tell everyone he was going to marry Allura?

‘I do not understand,' said the priest.

‘The matter is simple,' the baron explained. ‘This woman comes to me by default of harlotry; she is compensation for a crime.'

‘But you agreed to overlook that crime by promising to wed her,' the priest reminded, clearly anxious to return to the script.

‘And yet she has not confessed that crime to the gods – not here, at any rate, in the temple of our consecration. I demand that she be made to recount her sins.'

Allura heard the door open and close behind them. Someone else was entering. Out of the corner or her eye she saw Veeta, in a fresh garment of yellow, her hair styled even more prettily than before. She even wore footwear, golden slippers of a fine woven material.

‘I demand it,' repeated the baron, his hand resting on his sword.

The priest did not miss the gesture. ‘Let it be done as the baron says. The bride will recount her sins, under questioning from the groom.'

Allura remained stone-faced. She would not give the baron or anyone else the glee of seeing her break down on her wedding day. As grossly unfair as this was, she would see the matter through. ‘I have nothing to hide,' she said. ‘I was tricked by this man into kissing him.'

‘The law recognizes no such possibility,' countered the baron. ‘Either you kissed me or you did not.'

‘I did; and it was the most ghastly experience of my life.'

‘You dishonored my house and yours,' the baron replied, his face expressionless. ‘Remove your clothing, young lady.'

Allura laughed, giving the remark the contempt it deserved. ‘Are you mad as well as dastardly, Montreico? This is the house of the gods.'

The baron slid his sword from its scabbard. ‘That may be so, but I pay the cost of upkeep. Undress, princess, now.'

‘Your eminence,' she said to the priest, ‘surely you cannot allow this?'

Montreico slashed the hem of the garment, baring Allura's left thigh. ‘You will present your naked harlot's body,' he threatened, ‘or I will carry out the alternate sentence of death.'

Allura's fingers trembled. ‘This is an outrage.' The gown slid from her shoulders to the stone floor.

‘All of it, the shoes as well,' he cruelly insisted, and soon Allura was naked, the cool air chilling her skin. ‘You will not cover yourself,' commanded the baron, so she lowered her hands to her sides, giving him full visual access to her breasts. ‘Your nipples are tight.' He touched one lightly.

‘It is the temperature,' she recoiled, resisting the sudden tingle between her thighs.

‘Your scent is in the air. It is in your nature to be the seductress, the slut,' the baron accused, and she struck him across the face.

He made no move to hit her back. ‘Apologize,' he said simply.

Allura saw the hardness in his eyes, the predatory edge. Here was a man who would make her pay for her insolence, and she imagined the tortures upon her nakedness. ‘I… I'm sorry,' she muttered.

‘The vows,' said the baron, turning to the equally cowed priest, ‘you may proceed with them.' So the priest prompted the baron, allowing him to repeat back the formula. It was time for the ritual lighting of candles, but Montreico had more in mind. ‘My bride has more to say,' he announced.

Allura swallowed hard as he turned his attention upon her, full and withering. She wished she could kneel before him to better reflect the inequality between them.

‘I, Allura, crown princess of the realm, having disgraced myself and impugned the house and character of Baron Montreico, do accept the following consequences of my actions.' Allura's voice faltered. With each word came the deepening of her sexual need. The man was mastering her, truly.

‘Firstly, as the wife of the baron, I accept my subjugation to him in all things. I understand that I must obey him, though I cannot yet fully understand all this will entail. I understand also that I am subject to the baron's discipline. He may spank or paddle my bare behind; he may whip or otherwise strike me with instruments appropriate for a naughty female. Likewise, he may strike my breasts, or any other part of my body so long as no permanent injury results.' Allura's breathing quickened with shameful excitement, but phrase by phrase, pausing for air, she repeated the words. ‘I further understand that my liberty may be restricted or curtailed in any way. Though a free woman, I grant to Baron Montreico the right to bind and chain me, to cage and confine me according to his whims. I also accept that my body is his personal property, forfeited not only as wife but as slut, on account of my indiscretions.'

Allura turned to the priest, pleading. ‘Eminence, is this not blasphemy to the ears of the holy ones? He wants me for a slave.'

‘The old man will not help you.' The baron pressed his blade to her belly. ‘You must deal with me, with this sword of metal, or that other which is made of flesh.'

His cock. The bastard was telling her she must submit to his penis or die. ‘…I grant to Baron Montreico the right to bind or confine me,' she continued.

‘Until death do us part,' he concluded when she had caught up with the recitations, then to the priest he waved his hand. ‘Get on with it, if you please.'

The priest nodded hastily, the anguish clearly written on his face. ‘Let us pray, bow your heads,' he said to the assembled, ‘and close your eyes.'

The baron seized her sex during the prayer, and forced on tiptoes she had to stifle her moans. The priest could hardly have missed what was going on, but he was not about to make a fuss, not with the baron in the mood he was.

‘Amen.' He cleared his throat, clearly praying himself for the debacle to come to an end. ‘You may kiss one another as man and wife.'

Allura did so reluctantly, afraid of what another kiss would do to her already frazzled nerves, but the baron had something else in mind, and holding her shoulders to keep her back he pressed down. ‘You'll be kissing elsewhere, wife.'

His cock. He wanted her to pay homage with her mouth, here, in front of witnesses.

‘My lord,' said Rodolfo, ‘surely you don't mean to—'

‘Do you question me?' the baron snapped, suddenly enraged. ‘Do you wish to have your head severed from your body for insolence?'

Rodolfo lowered himself to one knee and bent his head in a show of obeisance. ‘I beg the pardon of my lord,' he said.

Montreico growled, the sword poised to strike the exposed neck of his closest associate, but Allura, reacting instantly to save the man, pressed her lips to Montreico's crotch. He was already semi-hard, a satisfied grunt escaping his throat, announcing the conclusion of the service. ‘Get out, all of you,' he snarled, grabbing his bride's hair. ‘Anyone entering this chamber in the next hour I will slay with my own hands.'

‘But baron,' the priest spoke up at last, ‘you cannot desecrate the place of the holy gods.'

The baron's eyes were wild with lust. ‘I offer virgin blood, old man, upon the ancient altar.' He laughed darkly. ‘What more could you ask for?'

‘Come, your eminence.' Rodolfo restrained the old man from rushing upon the baron. ‘Let us take our leave.'

‘And now, baroness,' Montreico turned his attention to Allura when the others had left, ‘it is time you and I got better acquainted, don't you think?'

Allura whimpered at his feet, under his total control, her hair balled in his fist. ‘Please, you're hurting me.'

He tightened his grip and bowed her back. ‘I like to hurt you, remember? And you're my wife now, so get used to it.'

‘W-what are you going to do to me?' She looked up at him in awe.

‘Exactly what you expect, my princess of the blood, I am going to fuck you on the holy altar.'

‘But why not a bed?' she asked, dismayed.

He reached down for a savage grab of her breast. ‘You're soft enough. You'll pad the stone slab for me.'

Her resistance was short-lived. ‘Very well, I will do as you say.'

‘Indeed you will, for now.'

Again she thought of what he'd said to her on the way to the castle, about how he both expected and wanted her to fight, so he could enjoy breaking her.

‘Beg me to fuck you, princess, on the altar.'

Submission hung in the air, mingled with her fast breathing and whimpers of pain. ‘Please,' she gasped, ‘fuck me… on the altar.'

The baron shoved her back onto her bottom. ‘Get up and dance for me, slut. Give me a good reason to be bothered with you.'

Allura rose shakily to her feet, feeling it was not she; not her body but someone else; a young woman flush and ready and wicked in this room; a girl craving domination; a girl who would deny after the fact what was so abundantly clear in the moment.

She knew nothing of dancing, she'd never moved her body in such a way, but she had witnessed the dancing of slaves before. In the days of her father's court, when he was not at war, he was famous for filling the castle with lovely captive wenches who would move beneath the lash, advertising their wares, hips swaying, buttocks and breasts pushed out, their writhing suggesting what else they were good for.

‘Show me your cunt,' demanded the baron, his expression giving little away, and Allura opened her legs, gyrating her hips. Could he see the glistening juices coating her tight virginal opening? ‘Touch yourself, spread your lips.' Allura obeyed, pinning back the wings of her labia as she swayed. ‘Hold your breasts, too.' His commands were forthright and greedy, and she could tell instinctively what she was in for.