Princess (9 page)

Iriel didn't answer, struggling in the net. A sharp prod of the trident in the flesh of her bottom made her cry out, but in anger, only for the other watchman to duck down, pick her up and haul her across his shoulder. Still wriggling furiously, she was carried from the chamber, catching Loumank's disgusted demand for a mop to be brought an instant before the doors swung shut.

Slowly her anger gave way to humiliation and fear as she was carried down the wide corridor to another room, this time smaller and with a single wizened man in a green-bordered robe seated behind a desk. He looked up, first in annoyance, then surprise as the watchman dumped Iriel on her bottom.

‘They are heavy, these outlander girls,' the watchman stated. ‘Thirty silver Marks, this one. She has eighteen, I believe.'

‘Then how am I to make up the remaining twelve?' the clerk demanded.

‘She is to work for Madame Hivies,' the watchman said. ‘Once she has worked off her debt, you may collect the balance. This is not my concern.'

‘But it is mine! No, I cannot forever be adjusting my books to cope with vagrants. What of jewellery?'

‘I have none,' Iriel admitted sullenly.'

‘Ha! And that dress will fetch nothing whatever. What is it, sacking?'

‘Mundic cloth!' Iriel answered him. ‘It cost a half-thalar!'

‘Worthless. What is that you have beneath it?'

‘My petticoat.'

‘Show me.'

A watchman ducked down, to pull up the hem of Iriel's dress, exposing her petticoat.

‘Silk,' he stated, ‘coarse but heavy.'

‘Get it off her.'

Iriel gave a squeak of protest, but the watchman already had a firm grip on her petticoat and simply upended her, only to have the garment stick where the net had been pulled tight immediately above her knees. The other watchman moved close, put the trident to her throat. She held still, trembling with fear and shame as the net was loosened. Her dress fell to expose her underwear, the petticoat was hauled roughly off, revealing her drawers, which followed, leaving her bare from the waist down but for her shoes, her bottom and tuppenny flaunted for all to see. The clerk took the clothes, inspecting them as the net was once more tightened around Iriel's knees.

‘Unusual,' he stated, ‘and worth maybe five silvers refashioned, less the cost of work. Why are they wet?'

‘She peed in them,' a watchman stated.

The clerk gave a single disgusted snort.

‘What else?'

‘I have nothing!' Iriel protested.

‘Her hair?' a watchman suggested. ‘It is fine, and the strangest colour, like new copper.'

‘Not my hair, please!' Iriel wailed.

‘Who would wish a wig the colour of copper?' the clerk demanded. ‘Save Madame Hivies perhaps.'

‘She is going to Madame Hivies anyway,' the other watchman answered, ‘who would not thank you for shearing her new whore.'

‘Madame Hivies' opinion is of no consequence,' the clerk answered. ‘My seven silvers are. Cut it, and I'll mark it at the price. Perhaps a puppeteer will take it, or a harlequin.'

‘No, please!' Iriel begged, trying to squirm away across the floor, but one watchman was already drawing his sword as the other put his trident to her neck.

‘Stay still,' he demanded.

She obeyed, now shaking hard as the swordsman began to tug her hair through the net, and still babbling pleas as her head was pulled up and a long hank cut free, most of her hair, to leave the remainder in a ragged halo around her head. Twisting what he had cut off into a knot, the watchman passed it to the clerk, who made a note in his ledger. Iriel had begun to cry, but forced the tears back.

A hand and a carefully placed boot helped her to her feet and she was led from the room, no longer resisting, following meekly with little awkward steps only as long as the tightly fastened net allowed. Her head hung in misery, her vision blurred with unshed tears, she tried not to think of her ruined hair and how foolish she would look, or of her naked body beneath the tattered dress.

Outside the citadel was brilliant sunlight and stifling heat. Again she had to struggle not to cry openly as she was led down the same long street she had walked free only the evening before, and to a two story house within a whitewashed compound halfway down the hill. A fat guard lazed in the sun at the arched entrance. He acknowledged the watchmen with a lazy salute and she was led through, into a garden, shaded by palms and with a fountain at the centre, a fountain in which the water spurted from the open pee-hole of a rolled up girl. She was cast in bronze, her ankles tied behind her head, her metal face set in an expression of agonised shame.

Iriel thought of how she'd wet herself in the judgement chamber and suddenly it was too much. She burst into tears, great wracking sobs that shook her whole body. Her vision dissolved in a haze and she slumped down, only to be pulled sharply up by the cord with which she had been led.

‘Your new whore, Madame Hivies,' one of the watchmen stated, his voice respectful. ‘Stand straight, girl. Show yourself.'

Iriel paid no attention, her head hung, tears streaming down her face and dripping from the mesh of her net. She caught a low, cruel chuckle, then a voice, rich and female.

‘So I see. Justice Ghaidus granted my application then?'

‘Not in full, Madame,' the watchman answered. ‘She is yours, for whipping and for discharge of her debt to you, so long as it takes no more than a week. She is then to be taken to the Watchhouse for public branding, after which you are to allow her standard terms.'

Madame Hives grunted but made no objection, walking slowly around Iriel before speaking again.

‘Fair,' she stated. ‘Exotic certainly. Why is her hair like this? The others wear it long or in elaborate braids.'

‘Clerk Mendes took he had cut it as part payment of her civic fine,' the watchman explained.

‘Wretched little man,' she responded, ‘still, it adds to her wild look. All the others refuse to work for me, but demand for this one will be all the higher for that. Take her out of the net.'

‘It is best to keep her in restraint, Madame,' a watchman begun, only to be cut off.

‘Don't you think I know how to handle girls?' Madame Hivies stated. ‘You men, you have no idea, but you will see, when she comes to the Watchhouse for branding she'll be meek enough.'

‘Yet still…' the watchman cautioned, but began to undo Iriel's net as his companion stood back with his trident ready. Madame Hives laughed.

‘Pitiable! Call yourselves men! She is a girl, for all her size!'

‘She felled two good men.'

‘Listen, girl,' Madame Hivies said as the net was lifted over Iriel's head. ‘Disobey me and I will have you tied and your cunt stuffed with crushed pimento. Now will you behave?'

Iriel didn't answer, not understanding except that the punishment was certain to be painful, but sure that she should fight, no matter the cost. Yet her hands were still tied, and she made no attempt, hanging her head meekly in mock acceptance instead. Madame Hives had come to stand in front of her again, a dumpy woman obviously once beautiful, now soft and lined with age. Her hair was lacquered and pinned, her body hidden beneath a flowing robe of golden silk. In one hand she held a small and supple whip, similar to a dog quirt.

‘You see, simple,' Madame Hivies laughed, but leave her hands and I shall show you another trick for difficult girls, one you'll have seen played upon the debtors in the slave market maybe. Hundact, show her off.'

The fat guard came away from the arch, to duck down and take the hem of Iriel's dress. An instant later it had been hauled high, forcing her arms up, and bunched above her head, leaving her nude below her waist and with only the sorry remains of her chemise to cover her breasts. Then her laces had been twitched open and they too were bare, heavy and blatant on her chest, but no more so than her bottom and tuppenny. Madame Hivies laughed as Iriel began to squirm in the shame of her exposure. A small, soft hand closed on one of Iriel's breasts. She jumped, then squeaked as her nipple was given a firm pinch to bring it erect.

‘Firm, responsive too,' Madame Hivies remarked, ‘and never have I seen such a large pair on a girl so young. I had expected them to droop more. They will sell, no doubt.'

Iriel tried to wriggle away, just as Madame Hivies let go, making her breasts bounce and quiver. The urge to kick out was strong, but the guard had her dress tight in his grip and she knew she would only end up making herself look foolish as she danced to the dog quirt.

A hand touched her belly and her stomach jumped. Again she tried to back away, realising the woman's intent, only to have the fat guard's knee pushed firmly between her buttocks, forcing her to stick her belly out even as a podgy finger invaded her tuppenny. She gasped, unable to choke the sound back, and again as a thumb settled among the folds of her sex, rubbing on her bump. Unable to help herself, she began to squirm on Madame Hives' hand fighting to stop her body reacting as she was casually, methodically, masturbated.

Her orgasm took only moments to come, rising up against every effort of her willpower, to leave her tuppenny tightening against the woman's hand and her bottom cheeks squeezing against the fat guard's knee. All three men laughed to see her reach climax so easily, also others, both male and female, evidently girls and their clients watching from the upper story of the house. Madame Hivies finished and she was left sobbing and shaking, the juice from her tuppenny running liberally down between her thighs.

‘Good,' Madame Hivies continued, ‘yes, she will sell. Move your knee, Hundact, I wish to see her bottom. Yes, big certainly, fleshy, but firm and in good proportion.'

She had taken hold of Iriel's bottom, kneading, then pinching, delivering a firm slap, then abruptly pulling the cheeks wide. Iriel squeaked again as her bottom ring was put on show, her shame burning in her head as she was inspected from behind.

‘No virgin behind, I think, a pity,' Madame Hivies stated.

She let go of Iriel's cheeks, only to slip a finger between, then push it suddenly up, into the cavity beyond. Again Iriel squealed in shock and humiliation.

No, definitely no virgin,' Madame Hives went on, casually fingering Iriel's bottom ring. ‘Yet tight enough. Release her, Hundact, but keep her dress up at the rear.'

Iriel's dress was dropped away from her head but remained held up at the back, showing her bottom. She found herself in bright sunlight once more, her cheeks twitching in anticipation of what she was sure was coming, her whipping. As she had guessed, several people were looking down from the windows around the compound, small, yellow skinned girls mostly, two with skins of a mid-brown, one a peculiar blue-black tone. All were naked, little breasts hanging over the window sills, and all were heavily made-up, their nipples, lips and cheeks rouged, their eyes heavy with kohl and coloured grease, their hair elaborately coiled and set with gauze and beads, to create an impression of overwhelming lewdness. There were men too, unremarkable Oreteans save for being stark naked.

Blushing furiously, she looked down at the ground. They had seen her stripped, her breasts fondled, her tuppenny and bottom ring penetrated, by a woman. The shame of it was a physical pain, and her head was full of voices, urging her to fight, to do anything but accept her humiliation in meekness. She tried to fight it, telling herself it was useless with her hands tied and three armed men against her.

‘What is your name, girl?' Madame Hivies asked.

‘Iriel.'

Immediately the dog quirt lashed out, catching Iriel full across her bottom. She gasped in pain, tensing her cheeks against the second stroke. It never came.

‘You name,' Madame Hives stated, ‘is… is Coppertop, a little play on words your clients will appreciate and you should know. A coppertop is the crude word for a man's erect cock, when the head pokes up through the foreskin. Now what is your name?'

‘C… Co…,' Iriel managed, voices screaming into her head.

She gave way, one leg lashing out to catch Madame Hives in the midriff and send her staggering back into the fountain, where she lay dashed, the water from the statue's pee-hole running down her front. Iriel twisted and ducked at the same time, dodging the thrown net, kicked again, knocking the fat guard's legs from beneath him. The watchman's trident prodded out at her even as he blew a frantic double note on his whistle, but she fell back, grappling the shaft with her legs to jerk it from his grasp. Immediately she was on it, struggling to grip it with her bound hands, only to be forced to roll as the net was cast again, up against the fat guard, who swung his great flabby buttocks over her face even as the others grappled her kicking legs. An instant later she was pinned helpless.

Iriel hung nude in the whipping frame. Not a stroke had been delivered, yet her body was a mass of pain. Bent double across one of the iron rods that composed her prison, her legs dangled down at one side, her body at the other. Her arms were behind her back, pulled high above her to leave much of the weight of her body on her tightly bound wrists, a chain leading up from the binding to the highest member of the frame. Her head hung low, her inverted position sending the blood to her head to leave her dizzy. Her breasts hung too, moving sluggishly beneath her body to the agonising jumping of her muscles that had begun shortly after she was strapped up. Even her legs hurt, stretched wide and tied to the sides of the frame, to leave her bottom high and flaunted, completely vulnerable, with every detail of her tuppenny and bottom ring on plain show.

Yet the pain of her body was minor to the agonising burning in her tuppenny. She had been stuffed with pimentos as threatened, little red fruit the juice of which burnt with a crazy, stinging pain that had brought her onto the most desperate heat of her life, pure pain blended with a need to have her hole fucked that went far beyond pleasure. Her nipples burnt too, and the skin of her breasts, where the woman who had pulped the pimentos in front of Iriel's face had wiped her hands. The pimentos had been put up her with a forcing stick, packed up into her hole as if stuffing a chicken.