The Surrender of Lady Charlotte (5 page)

“Please, please stop!” she wailed in her heartiest of voices coming straight from her gut.

“You don’t like my gift?” Mountbane mocked her at one point.

Her despondent face replied for her—half pleading with remorse, the other half tempted to scowl in anger.

“We’ll see how my dungeon fares with you now, gentle lover.” Then turning to one aide, he said, “Remove her to the dungeon and see that Caius keeps her so attired until morning. She’ll serve me in these chains until I tire of hearing her screams.”

The journey to the dungeon was more gruesome than any she’d undertaken in her short life. She crawled on hands and knees, each movement compounding her woe. And once in her cell, she found but one position free of distress; though by the time she discovered that one, there was so much discomfort in soul and body that she could hardly sleep. Not until the cock crowed in the castle courtyard, when Loria finally arrived to remove the chains, did she fall asleep.

The week that followed slipped into a bizarre ritual of abuse. When she was free of her chains, her body was given pleasure from the slaves that served with her. Mouths and soothing hands would mend the scratches and tears from the biting briar and kiss away her sad tears. Strangely, she was more sexually aroused than ever; it took little to bring her senses to a crashing fruition of lust. Could it be true that even the chains brought her more desire?

Worst of all were Mountbane’s visits. With her miserable clothes still securely fixed to her flesh, he’d toy with her in the gentlest manner. His fingers stroked the slips of skin between her labia until she couldn’t help but respond, jerking into more stinging agony. Her attempts to squelch her physical responses were useless. It seemed her body loved the pain as much as it loved the tenderness of man or woman. Her mind struggled with this mire of anguish, until that eventual moment when she’d suddenly let go and shriek with pain for the jarring orgasmic blasts that careened through her loins.

It was a daily venture, so fraught with anticipation that the hour before Mountbane descended to the dungeon; she felt his loins beating from afar. Her body would quicken so she could smell the aroma of her sex and wonder if it were reaching out to grab him in.

He came one day as her body ached so for the awaited release—and as expected, she found the physical mirth astounding as her pained cry reached high about her, reverberating through the dank air of the castle above. When Mountbane was finished bringing her to climax, he drew away. “Where is your heart now, slave?” he asked as he crouched over her.

“My heart has died,” she replied.

“Has it now?” he pondered, his voice almost kind. “What then, if I were to remove these chains and bring you to the comfort of my bed? What if I were to bathe your body and make it ready for its further duties as my wife? What then, Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte’s eyes glittered as the torch above her flooded her in its eerie light. She struggled with heart and body both speaking passionately of her true feelings. But her mind was much more persuasive. Arguing the opposite, it broke free from the turmoil and spoke aloud with the same venomous tongue she’d known since her first day harbored in Ilusian misery, “I would still hate you, Mountbane,” she said, her voice calm as a gently rolling sea, as determined and willful. “I would not call you husband, and I would resent every service I was required to render you. Would I submit? I suppose I’d have no choice in this; but I would not beg you to breach my untried door. You’d have to take it, just as you’ve taken everything else from me.”

If she had a mind keen enough to think clearly at that instant—which she did not—she would have seen the flicker of disappointment in the man’s eyes. Instead, she focused on the mockery that swiftly followed, which seemed so common to this scoundrel.

He rose from where he’d crouched at her side and announced to her jailer, “Caius, have her chains removed and send her to the kitchens. She is of no use to me.”

“Aye, sir,” he replied.

Mountbane was gone, Charlotte was freed, and her terror in the dungeon was at its end.

Life torn asunder, twisted by this cruel fate, it would seem the castle larders, scullery and storehouses would be some relief from this tangle of terror. In her new occupation, Charlotte served as a common kitchen slave—wearing the simple garments of a serf. Only the collar about her neck remained to indicate that she was not a free woman with the right to come and go as she pleased—that is, the collar
and
the chastity belt which was now well-hidden from view by her simple clothes. Her companions in this venture were like any she might face in life: some were compassionate to her situation; others mocked her, knowing of her noble birth and fall from grace; still others were the surly sort who cared not a wit about who she was and freely ordered her about. Charlotte was one of the lowest of the kitchen workers, given the least favorite tasks. For several weeks, she spent most of her hours cleaning—pots, utensils, floors, walls, and greasy tubs.

She rose before dawn to start days filled with one hard labor after another until finally exhausted she’d collapse in bed. Unaccustomed to this heavy toil, it took some weeks before she became used to the burden of her job. When she flagged in zeal before one of the kitchen matrons, she might be flogged for laziness, or simply scolded by the more compassionate women.

“You’ll get used to it in time,” she was advised.

“Best keep a cheerful countenance—makes your day go faster.”

She took these comments in the best of spirits, truly hoping that these kind souls were right.

At the beginning, it was enough that Mountbane was done with her and she was freed from the dungeon horrors. Though what she hadn’t counted on were the advances of the boys who moved through the kitchens at their leisure just for the sport of fondling a breast, or playfully whacking a fat behind to the squeals and slaps of the embarrassed kitchen wench. Charlotte did wonder, though, if her so-called husband was entirely done with her, since her chastity belt remained. Had it simply been forgotten, or was this a sign that he still intended to have her as he’d always planned? As it turned out, the encumbrance, though still awkward, was a blessing in warding off the most serious advances of these knaves. She soon understood that in this back world of Ilusian society, a woman’s virginity was much ado about nothing. Such silly slips of skin were only important to nobles and proud men.

Days into this new life, she thought she might settle into it—except for the curious aching that began to plague her. Her groin would enliven the moment some dashing fellow walked by her toiling body—and more still if he took note of her. She was still fair enough, with a pleasant grin; and those not put off by the short fuzz of blonde covering her head found her a most attractive woman—even for a slave. They flirted with her as they would other slaves and servants; and Charlotte found their attentions invigorating her body.

Time advancing, she scrubbed floors and cleaned the scullery with feverish abandon, her passions building with an increasing fervor. Such desire brewing, surely it was far more than just the occasional playfulness from a randy rogue that had her so aroused. Her loins knew the answer to this perplexing state of stimulation. In his despicable and ruthless fashion, the scoundrel Lord Mountbane had enjoined her body to relish the physical release in the crude and often painful turns it took. Unable now to hold back her desire, her mind was driven to the cruelest fantasies—all without any promise of release. The damned chastity harness prevented her from playing with her roused crotch! And so, she was caught in a sexual bind from which she could not break free.

This new misery increased. Each day, the desire plagued her more relentlessly than it had the day before. She slept fitfully even in exhaustion. If her hands could only touch her hungering womanhood as Mountbane’s had and bring about the satisfaction her body craved! He was a beast, a monster, the rudest of villains to have arranged this misery!

Increasing her plight more, Charlotte found herself serving food in the castle’s main dining room—waiting on the very author of this great trial as though she were truly just a lowly kitchen slave. When the task was first assigned, she worried that she’d once again be fair game for his typically mocking tirades; but instead, and to her utter amazement, Mountbane made no note of her—not a glance, a comment, even the faint flicker of recognition in his brow or eye.

If that were not enough to unnerve her sense of peace, worse yet were the bawdy debaucheries in his dining halls and private rooms where she’d carry pitchers of wine to the assembled, and was forced to observe the fornicating bodies poised in all manner of sexual activity. Placed in this unfortunate position, her heart began to bleed with another pain as she noted how this man—her husband—made love. Tenderness and passion boiled in his blood. His hands would rove the female form with an artful flair that both aroused his sumptuous lovers and nurtured them as well. His kisses looked like sweet confections. His brooding waltz about a tethered beauty felt like bliss to the needy Charlotte. Strikes of leather struck her as well. And the orgasmic waves of ecstasy she witnessed seemed to ride right through her body as though they might take her along with them.

How kind he was! What sincerity he offered those he loved—or simply used! There was no falseness here. Could she be jealous of these harlots that he took to bed?

Charlotte remembered then the times he came to her, glorifying them in her heart and feeling a bittersweet longing brewing dangerously close to the surface of her emotions. Had he been so kind to her, too, and she’d refused to feel it?

Most painful of all were the penetrations. The thrusting, heaving, groaning, panting copulation of bodies—what she’d never known. A woman’s head thrown back in the throes of bliss nearly made her own body leap to a climax of its own. The kind of shuddering ends she observed in silence tore at her miserably.

While the castle thrived on such sexual expression—even cooks and chambermaids fucked with abandon—Charlotte’s world remained bereft of physical passion. Work was not enough to stem her hunger, or cure the grief; and so she became haunted by the desperate picture of her solution. Frustrated and fearful that her life would soon be sucked from her in this wasteland, she became obsessed by a vile desire. As often as she threw it from her mind, it returned, redoubling its efforts to plague her until she finally acted.

At the end of a long evening serving Mountbane and his guests in one of the smaller dining halls, Charlotte approached the main table as the festivities were dying down. Some were sleeping, others talking quietly, as was the Lord himself.

“Sir, may I speak?” she said in a clear voice.

There was no response.

“Sir, may I speak?” she repeated, to find Mountbane suddenly take note and turn around.

“Yes?”

“Speak with you in private?” she added.

“No, not in private. You have something to tell me, say it now.”

She feared this, but was not undone. And moving closer in hopes that their conversation could be more intimate, she began, “I should like to reconsider this arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” he appeared bewildered.

“Yes, the reason for my being here?” she tried again to explain without explaining anything at all.

“Ah, I see. And why is that? You hate me, I recall.”

“Perhaps not. I should like to try…”

“Try what? A true marriage? Is that what you ask?”

“I suppose I do.” Until that moment, she hadn’t honestly understood what she wanted—except some relief from this passionate longing.

“Fine then,” he said simply, “go back to the dungeon and learn your craft. When you’re a worthy slave we might try again.”

“Return to the dungeon?”

“Is that not what I said?”

“It is.”

“It is,
sir.
You address me with respect, or not at all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get back to your work.”

d

“Master Caius,” Charlotte dropped to her knees as she entered the brute’s subterranean world. Finding him polishing a dagger, she shuddered at the implications, but she couldn’t be concerned with that—not now. She bowed her head, kissed his boots, and waited for him to speak.

“What say you?” Caius finally responded to the groveling woman as he moved his burly form from his stool, practically kicking her away as he did.

She looked up at him with the most pitiful of expressions—her heart almost believing in the ruse that she was about to launch. “I should like for you to teach me how to be a proper wife to my lord.”

Caius’ bushy eyebrows arched almost playfully. “So, you’ve had enough of the scullery?”

“I am ready to take my rightful place in Mountbane’s world.”

“Better a slave in bed than in the kitchen? Ah! You know the real life, I see.”

“I know very little, sir, except that I am unaccustomed to this world and how I need to act in order that I may please my lord.”

He snickered, “I detect some scheme here,” his boots creaked as he walked around her bowed body, “and I would be a fool if I were to hand a false-hearted slave to my master.”

“I swear, there is no falseness in my purpose.”

“Then what has caused this change?”

“A change in sanity, sir. My trials have taught me that I cannot judge one world by the standards of another. And truly, my body burns now to know more than what I’ve made of my life so far.”

“Your body’s likely horny for a good fuck!” he declared.

“That too, sir. And what is wrong with that? Is that not what my Lord Mountbane tried to teach me?”

Caius nodded, his mind grinding away at something as he determined how to proceed. “Loria, come.”

The dutiful dark-skinned companion of the dungeon master was called from the side of the room, and quickly stood before her master—eyes lowered, lips parted, hands at her side, palms open. Her nakedness was stark and beautiful in this pose of waiting. The rich texture of her body glowed by candlelight; her dark areoles seemed blushed with pink, as were her tawny cheeks; and below, the V of her feminine crest bloomed with a bush of black, glistening curls.

“Watch carefully,” he ordered Charlotte. “You study this well, you’ll understand Ilusia at its substance. The postures of humility and the attitude are one. There is no slave better than my Loria to teach you subservience.”

Charlotte stared upward, for the first time observing this simple woman for the dignity and grace she exuded with such abundance. It seemed that until now the contentious novice hadn’t bothered to appraise anything more about her new home than her own contrary feelings. Kneeling still, she sat back on her heels in awe.

“Loria waits now for my command and will bend like the willow to obey my order.” Caius halted in front of his slave saying, “Pose for inspection.”

Loria changed positions facilely, locking her fingers behind her neck, while her elbows and feet were wide apart. Eyes down, lips apart, that aspect of her attitude remained the same.

“And on your knees,” Caius ordered further, watching as the lovely slave fell to the floor like a leaf drops to the earth. Her knees remained spread, but other than this one facet of the pose, her mood, her face, her hands, and eyes didn’t change.

Charlotte was comprehending but not yet schooled enough. The shapes and contours of surrender had many permutations. To miss one might mean she’d miss the very one that would woo her Mountbane to discard this miserable captivity of her loins and make her whole at last. The promise of relief and sexual ecstasy burned through her earlier anger. Though she despised him still, she would have him—even if it meant succumbing to these degrading submissive rituals.

“Head to the floor,” Loria was ordered next. Obeying readily, she fell forward, legs still apart, and pressed her cheek to the stone while clasping her hands behind her, tucking them to her lower back. Her ass was raised above her heels thus exposing every private treasure between her legs. Certainly, her thighs would ache in such a position, but her steady fix on this posture never suggested it caused even a second of discomfort.

Caius made her keep the pose for several minutes while he circled her with a rod in hand and leveled several whisking cuts of wood against her flanks and ass. She jarred slightly with each blow, but kept her repose without a grimace or a cry.

“Slave, rest,” he ordered then, and the submissive collapsed, her ass resting on her heels, her arms stretched forward. Her entire body looked like a sack of wheat slumped languidly on the ground. “See how she becomes so formless? But how her eyes remain half-closed and her lips slightly parted? She is at peace, but watchful. A slave cannot afford the misstep of thoughtlessness. She may rest, but she is waiting for my next command. Prostrate yourself.” The order might have slipped right by a less observant slave. But not Loria. Her body slid forward, opening with arms and legs stretched wide and to her sides as though she were a star about to rise to heaven. Her head bowed once more, as she pressed her forehead into the ground, tucking her chin to her neck. She waited again. “You do these with such flawless precision,” he said to Charlotte, “you may not seduce your master, but you will get his attention.”

Caius glided his rod along the lines of Loria’s body as though he were making a picture of her perfection. Nearly imperceptible shivers could be seen along her skin, as the tiny quakes could not be helped. As her master lodged his piece into the cleft of her ass, she shuddered more, but not so deeply as to offend him. Though Charlotte couldn’t see, she suspected that for a time, the rounded head of his implement was pressed to Loria’s anus. Something in her clenched for just a second before she relaxed into whatever sensation had gripped her with a trace of fear.

“Body spread,” Caius moved on withdrawing the rod and standing back to see his slave turn over and open herself as widely as she had in her last posture; though now breasts, belly and groin undulated in anticipation of a strike upon her flesh, or a new command. This time the master moved forward quickly with his demand, “Into a bridge,” whereupon Loria’s body seemed to float upwards as she bent her knees, drew her feet in toward her ass, and lifted her hips up off the floor. Her arms rested above her head as the watching eye was lured to the blatant exposure of her nest of curls and the pink/brown lips hidden within them. “I should fuck her now and let you see the show. See how a slave performs her task of service—how
you
will perform.”