First Chapter of W.H. Collins’s dark erotic fantasy. All fourteen chapters are now available from Amazon under the title The Fall of the Black Queen.
Note that this story is intended for mature audiences only and contains extremely graphic depictions of material that many audiences will find disturbing, including spanking and forced nudity. Nothing herein is intended to glorify or condone the horrific experiences which the protagonist endures, and the reader is strictly instructed not to take any prurient interest in this tale of medieval violence and sexual exploitation.
Her hands were bound. As the Black Queen struggled painfully toward consciousness, the dull discomfort of the rope entwining her wrists and the unpleasant sensation of immobility penetrated her fevered dreams and hastened the onset of wakefulness.
The Black Queen? Yes, that was her. The realization was an important corner piece out from which she could reconstruct the jigsaw puzzle of her situation. Her mind still straddled the dizzying precipice between lucidity and the unconscious. In that twilight where one’s sense of place and of time and even of self become disoriented and elusive, the words were a beacon.
The Black Queen. Yes. Even before her father’s death had thrown the realm into chaos, people had spoken in terms of the Blacks and the Whites. The enmity between the court’s two most powerful factions had a long history, but it was the succession issue that brought the divide into focus, turning what had once been merely a rough, color-coded shorthand into a more-or-less official badge of allegiance.
Black referred to the black cross of the Duchy of Aardmore, the clique’s principal base of power and where the Queen had spent many of her formative years during her mother’s brief exile from court. White might plausibly have come from Whitehold, the coastal fortress that had more than once been the site of political intrigue by the Queen’s half-sister and her supporters, or from the white rose that was a traditional symbol of royal authority. Or perhaps the label came to be used simply because it was the opposite of Black.
Whatever the origin, the symbolism was self-perpetuating. As the Old King’s health worsened and the camps coalesced, nobles and knights and churchmen across the kingdom declared their loyalties by flying their faction’s colors: black gowns and white banners; black ribbons and white cloaks; black armor and white lances. There were neutral parties, of course, counselors loyal first and foremost to the realm, who in the Old King’s final years begged him to name an heir and unite his fraying kingdom.
Sadly, the imperious and long-reigning monarch known as the Grey Lion had always preferred to keep the succession card in play, sending ambivalent signals and intentionally setting the cadet branches of his dynasty against one another as a means of exerting his will upon his unruly barons. By the time the need for an unequivocal declaration became undeniable, it was too late. The rapidly deteriorating state of the King’s mental faculties was an open secret at court, such that any proclamation could be plausibly challenged later as a product of the Grey Lion’s dementia. For this reason, his advisors ceased to press the issue, and the Blacks and the Whites positioned themselves for an inevitable civil war.
Lady Isabella of Aardmore. The Black Queen. Yes. It was her birthright.
She was well aware of the arguments to the contrary, of course. Some claimed the annulment of King Harold’s marriage to Isabella’s mother had retroactively thrown her legitimacy into question. If so, then Joan D’Montefort, the eldest surviving child of the Old King’s second marriage, the vain, cruel woman now holding herself out as the White Queen, who might seem to have a viable claim. Joan may have been younger—twenty-two years to Isabella’s twenty-six—but she had shored up her claim with a strategic marriage to her first cousin, the Earl of Carteaux, the ineffectual, porcine pretender known now as the White King.
But Lady Isabella cared little for what the lawyers said. The Blacks had their own lawyers, who had their own theories, based upon Isabella’s lineage through her maternal grandfather, the late Duke of Aardmore, and upon changes to the laws of inheritance wrought by the Treaty of Barrington, and upon other more esoteric precedents that they assured her demonstrated conclusively her legitimacy. It mattered little. The Black Queen knew that power did not spring from the law; it was the other way around.
As the sides had positioned themselves in anticipation of the Grey Lion’s death, Lady Isabella had been pressured into a strategic marriage of her own. The elderly baron now hailed as the Black King, unlike Cartreaux, brought no royal blood to bolster her claim to the throne, but he did bring 200 knights, 1,000 footmen and extensive landholdings located in key regions. It was not a match that conformed to her girlhood fantasies, but the Queen recognized its expedience. And whatever conjugal comforts were beyond the capacity of her kindly but frail Black King could be amply provided by her long-time consort, the comely Sir William Cantor.
“. . . the Black Queen.” This time, the words were not in her head. Someone was speaking of her, and not with the tone of deference to which she was accustomed. The intrusion of the voice upon her dreams made her newly aware that the force that immobilized her, pressing her thighs tightly together and wrenching her arms behind her back was not the warm embrace of her Sir William as she had begun to imagine.
Captured. That’s what had happened. She had been riding north at the head of a full mounted regiment to relieve the siege at the Black stronghold of Malburgh Castle. She knew the risks of the mission. Yet she insisted on leading the Black forces personally against the urging of her advisors.
If God had seen fit that she should fall before the stout walls of Malburgh, that would have been one thing. But the manner of her defeat was more shameful, and, as her mind struggled haltingly into the present, a deep sense of dishonor awakened, more painful than her dawning physical discomfort.
Foolishly, she had ridden out ahead of her main contingent. She had hoped to see for herself where and how the White forces were arrayed. They were said to be under the command of Sir Stewart, the cavalier young knight whose service to the White cause had been distinguished both by military acumen and by sheer brutality. If she could outmaneuver the White Knight on the battlefield, it might decisively change the war’s momentum. Instead, she was ambushed before she ever got to the ridge overlooking the castle.
Ambushed not by Sir Stewart. Nor by any other knight or castellan fit to meet a queen in battle. Instead, in her carelessness, she and her small company were set upon by a band of lowly foot soldiers. No more than armed peasants. The last thing she remembered was seeing one of her men pulled from his horse and slaughtered. Then she had suffered a blow from behind.
Her Magnificence the Black Queen laid low by a rabble of ignorant peons. As the shameful memory rose to the surface, she squirmed in discomfort. Again, the alien bite of her bindings twisted against her wrists.
The smell of campfire was in the air. A cold wind snaked its way underneath her dress and chilled her bones. Her head aching and her arms stiff from confinement, the Black Queen finally opened her eyes.
She was in a small clearing, dense woods pressing in all around. Her body was propped up against a tree trunk. It was night, and, aside from the dim moonlight creeping its way through the foliage overhead, the only illumination emanated from a fire, which cast eerie shadows over the thick layer of pine needles that covered the forest floor.
Tending the fire, which had been built in the center of the clearing a little more than ten feet from where the Queen lay, was a figure in what had once clearly been a white uniform, though the jacket was so heavily caked in soot and grime that it almost reminded the Queen of her own soldiers’ livery. As the figure leaned in to stoke the flames, the Black Queen could discern the details of his leathery face. He had the grizzled, pockmarked look that was a badge of his serfdom.
Suddenly, the soldier looked over at her. The Queen tried to shut her eyes, but it was too late.
“Hey, Nollie!” she heard him hiss, “Her majesty’s up from ‘er nap!”
Opening her eyes once again, she saw a second soldier, equally dirty and disreputable, emerge from the darkness carrying an armload of firewood. He dumped it unceremoniously by the fire and joined his comrade staring in the Queen’s direction.
“Wha’? Are you sure she’s up, Red? I can’t see er eyes…”
“Sure sure. I jus saw er move,” replied Red, “Hey, yer majesty! So nice ‘o you ta join us!”
It was time to confront her fate, and the Black Queen gathered her courage. With a small groan, she did her best to pull herself up into a sitting position. Using the tree to take most of her weight, she raised her chin and fixed her captors with her most regal look.
“You there! What lord do you serve?” she demanded.
The two soldiers looked at each other. Red took off his dingy white cap to reveal a gray and patchy mat of hair that left no clue as to the origins of his name. Nollie, several decades his junior and some two feet his superior, scratched his facial scruff nervously.
“What lord you reckon we serve, Nol?” Red said. “I meself grew up on the estates of Lord Gascon, but that was before the Old King stripped ‘im of ‘is lands an’ granted ‘em to the Earl of Tallybrook. Now Tallybrook married ‘is daughter to some nephew of ‘Ouse of Cartreaux as best I understan’ . . .”
“You will unbind me at once,” the Queen interrupted in exasperation. “You will bring me at once to your commanding officer that we may discuss terms.”
“Oh,” Red responded, knitting his brow and nodding slowly in showy consideration of the Queen’s words, “So that’s what we will do. You get all that, Nollie?”
Nollie simply looked nervously back and forth between Red and the Queen.
“I’m sure glad you woke up, Yer Majesty, to tell we aimless pawns what we will do. Why, I was jus’ wondering what I will do. Wasn’ I, Nol?”
Red cautiously sauntered closer to the Queen, making an awkward snuffling noise that might have been some sort of a chuckle. He stopped just short of where she lay, propped up in her uncomfortable half-sitting position, and examined her. His eyes glazed over, transfixed in wonder. The Queen squirmed, causing the ropes wrapped round her legs to dig painfully into her thighs.
She looked up, and, for a brief instant, the Queen saw herself reflected in the peasant’s yellowing, sunken eyes. It was said she was a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the realm if her flatterers were given any credence at all. But even her detractors could not deny her striking, delicate features nor the way her intense green eyes were set off by stunning cascades of dark black hair, creating a face that had inspired a hundred poems.
And her body. Her body had captured the attention of every man at court. Her corsets could barely contain her ample chest, and many a male courtier and ambassador had longed to glimpse the long legs and shapely bottom that were no doubt contained underneath the flowing black gowns she always favored.
At the moment, however, that flowing black gown was covered in pine needles, and that near-to-bursting corset was threatening to suffocate her. As the Black Queen looked up at the rough face of her captor, she felt herself recoil. Her shame and anger were joined by the first hints of an emergent panic.
“Well? Release me, footman. I am the trueborn daughter of King Harold the Grey Lion and his rightful heir. Do you understand? I wish to speak to your superiors. You marched on Malburgh with the butcher Sir Stewart, yes? I would treat with the White Knight at once. Take me to him. I will not wait on the morrow.”
Red let out a low whistle.
“We’d ‘eard that the Black Queen was a pretty one, but the stories don’t do it no justice. Ain’t that right, Nollie?”
“She’s pretty all right, Red,” Nollie agreed.
Red crouched down and brought his haggard face within inches of the Queen’s. The smell of onions and roasted forest animal clung to his breath.
“How about a liddle kiss for ol’ Red, Yer Majesty? It gets awful lonely out ‘ere on patrol, it does.”
The Queen felt as she might vomit, but, instead, she spit. Gathering what little moisture she could from her parched mouth, she managed to land a modest gob of saliva just below Red’s eye.
“You will release me at once! I shall report the disrespect you have shown me to your commander!” she said, her tone of command undercut by a faint note of hysteria. “I shall . . .! You will . . . !”
“Nasty nasty. Wut kinda manners is they teachin’ at the palace nowdays?”
“Even I knows better than tuh spit on people, Red,” contributed Nollie, still standing several feet away, fiddling nervously with his coat buttons.
The impertinence of these common soldiers was now beyond all belief. She itched with the urge to land a blow across this arrogant peon’s cheek with the back of her hand, a move she had honed to stinging perfection over the years on her own servants, and reflexively she attempted to rise. Immediately, her ropes squeezed, and she rocked back against the tree with a thud.
As she lay there, her muscles quaking with fury, Red placed his hand on her knee and bent forward to place a wet kiss on her collarbone, which protruded ever so slightly from the ruffled neckline of her gown. Queen Isabella’s eyes went wide in complete disbelief.
“You-… I’ll have you-… you’ll be lashed for this!… Lashed, do you hear?!” she sputtered, struggling to squirm away from the defiling touch of this upstart Pawn.
“Lashed? Oh yes, I’ve been lashed before,” responded Red with a toothy grin.
“Yeah, me too, Red!” contributed Nollie, “Yuh don’t serve wif Sir Stewart’s men too long without takin’ a lashing or two.”
Red grabbed one of the Queen’s ankles and gave it a sharp tug, pulling her roughly away from the tree. Her head hit the soft dirt with a gentle bump and a crackle of leaves. Her pinioned arms twisted beneath her, eliciting from her a yelp of pain. Red stood over the Black Queen with a foot on either side of her torso, preventing her from wriggling away.
“You see? We’re lashing hexperts, you might say. Why, once, when I was a boy, the old Duke of Aardmore, your grandfather if I know me noble fammy trees, he n’ his house was guests of Lord Gascon. To shorten what’s a might lengthy story, I got caught peepin’ on the Lady Aardmore when she was at her bath. The Duke had me lashed like I never been before and since. Lashed me Ma and Pa and me old Nana too for me wicked upbringing while he was at it. And me Pa never was the same from that day. Oh I been lashed no denying.”
The pockmarked old footman sluffed off his coat and tossed it over by the fire. He untucked his shirt from his trousers and raised it to demonstrate. Indeed, his skin was marked by a latticework of long, beveled scars. He let his shirt drop and leaned down towards the bound noblewoman at his feet.
“Question is: Have you ever been lashed, Yer Majesty?”
The Queen was so stunned she stopped struggling for a moment.
“Have I-. . . Lashed? I most certainly have not, you filthy cur! You- You shall release me if you wish to keep your heads!”
“Never had to take a bit of the lash, eh? Well no wonder yer manners hain’t fittin’ a proper young lady. Yer daddy good King Harold hadn’t time to take you cross ‘is knee give that arrogant royal bottom a lesson, that it? Nor your granddad the Duke, may the son of a whore get buggered in ‘ell, ‘e too captivated by ‘is pretty Black Princess to take a rod to ‘er backside when she needed it?”
Rage was convulsing her, and, as her breathing escalated, she feared she might suffocate in her tight corset.
“How-…” she panted, “How-… How dare you!”
Before she could continue, however, Red grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her violently to her feet. Nollie joined him, and, between the two of them, they lifted her and pinned her face-first against the tree trunk. With Nollie holding her securely, Red undid the rope around her wrists, only to retie them on the other side of the tree as Nollie pressed against her back, holding her helpless and immobile.
Then, Red undid the knots by her thighs and unwound the rope that held her legs together. The Queen tried to kick, but between the two soldiers they were able to neutralize her while Red tied both her ankles tightly to the tree, fixing them on opposite sides of the trunk and spreading her legs slightly apart. Another stretch of rope was wound around her torso, just above her hips and knotted tightly on the other side of the tree.
The Black Queen was in agony, her arms pulled taught around the tree and her face and body squished forcibly against the bark. She began to scream, hurling incoherent curses.
“Nollie, do something about that noise, huh? Nobody around to hear it, but I don’ wanna go deef…”
Nollie found a strip of filthy cloth, a greasy rag that was probably used to clean the cooking gear. Red took it and forced it into the Queen’s mouth. With difficulty, he managed to wedge it in between her teeth and tie it around her head, muffling her cries of outrage.
“Spittin’ on good honest folks,” said Red. “Callin’ ‘em all sorts of nasty names. Where I was raised, that’d be more’nuff to earn Yer Majesty ‘er first taste o’ the lash. Yer lucky you ran into us, M’lady. You should hear the stories that’re spreadin’ bout your bo-have-i-or. A firm punishment, like yer daddy outta given you long time ago. I’d say that’s jus’ what you needa turn yer life round. Why, yer gonna thank us when this is done. . .”
The Queen’s head swam. What was this vile peasant suggesting? He wouldn’t dare raise his filthy hand to someone of her birth. She was a prisoner, perhaps, but a royal prisoner. White or Black, any lord who found out what this lowborn thug had threatened would surely see him hanged, drawn and quartered. She strained her neck to look behind her and tried to shout these same observations back at her deluded captors, but the angry words were muffled by the rag in her mouth.
“Hey, Red. I broke off a piece of this here birch. Think this’ll do?”
Nollie handed Red a branch, from which he’d stripped most of leaves. It was two feet long and about half an inch in diameter at its fattest part. Red stripped off a few more leaves and imperfections before whipping it around experimentally. The Queen flinched at the whizzing noise she heard it make.
“Ooooh… I’m gonna injoy this, Yer Majesty,” Red said, wheezing with excitement, “me n’ Nollie here are gonna teach you some manners. We’ll see how high n’ mighty you act after you’re through with your liddle punishment…”
Even now, the Queen’s mind refused to process her predicament. Did they really mean to strike her with that crude branch? Never in her life had someone dared lay hands on her royal person in such a fashion. And to have such brutality justified as “punishment” was an affront too humiliating to bear. These White thugs could not possibly follow through with what they were implying: the rightful queen of the realm tied down and whipped like a servant or a schoolchild? It was unthinkable.
“Well… I’d say this is a rod fit for a royal behind.”
“Oh! Can we pull up her dress, Red?” asked Nollie, practically sputtering in excitement. “We can pull up her dress can’t we? When they whip the serving girls at the manor, they pull up theirs dresses. I seen it! Make them take off their dainties too! Yes I seen it plenty times! Bottoms just shaking out in the wind, naked as God made em. I seen em, Red!”
“You must think I’m a village idiot, Nollie. Wouldn’t be no proper punishment otherwise, now would it? You go ‘elp ‘er Majesty’s naughty liddle arse get ready to taste this ‘ere birch.”
The Queen gasped into her gag at hearing this exchange. The taller, younger soldier eagerly bounded over to the tree and bent down to grab the hem of the Queen’s skirt. Her eyes grew wide and she began to struggle, bucking and tugging against her bonds. Some of the dress was wedged in between her calves and the rope, but Nollie soon freed the material and began to shimmy it upwards, exposing the gauzy chemise that she wore underneath. He took a moment to feel the soft, thin fabric, rolling it reverently between thumb and forefinger, before tugging it upwards after the dress, bringing the Queen’s bare legs into view inch by inch. Isabella collapsed against the tree in helplessness, fighting against the tears of frustration welling up in her eyes.
As the footman pulled her dress up higher, he encountered the silk undergarments that Isabella wore for horseback riding. They were exuisitely tailored, their frilled edges circling tightly around her hips and thighs. The men paused in curiosity at the sight.
“Well, would you look at them fancy little bloomers,” laughed Red, “tuck that dress up so’s it don’t fall down, Nollie, then let’s ‘ave a look’t what Er Majesty hides beneef dem drawers…”
No instruction was necessary. Nollie had already bunched the skirt up and secured it well above the Queen’s waistline and was reaching eagerly for the string that tied her underwear. Though she struggled mightily against her restraints, the proud monarch was unable to prevent the gangly footman from loosening the knot and then, to her utter dismay, yanking them down to her knees.
The Black Queen moaned in shame through the rag between her teeth. Even in the royal bedroom, her body was seldom so exposed. She felt the cold night air whip across her naked skin, its violating caress circling the firm round orbs of her buttocks, down to the backs of her knees and then up the inside of her thigh to stroke her womanhood with its chilly touch. Never had her body been put on display in this fashion, its private curves mounted in the open air for the pleasure of strangers.
The two White soldiers stepped back to admire. Before them was an object of beauty to which nothing in their miserable lives could compare. The drooping, birthmarked asses of the whores down at the Hart’s Head Tavern could not possibly have prepared them for the long aristocratic legs or the perky royal bottom tied helplessly to the tree in front of them.
Red gave a whistle of appreciation.
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a damn pretty rump, Yer Ighness? Seems a shame we’ve gotta mark it up like this, but then how else you gonna learn your lesson and come out of this a good little princess, eh?”
As Isabella struggled against her bindings, she felt the rough bark of the tree rub against her naked crotch. It was a completely alien sensation and reinforced the abject humiliation of her situation.
Red stepped up to her and whipped his wooden rod through the air. With a flourish, he brought the stripped birch squarely down in the middle of the Black Queen’s captive ass.
The Queen let out a gagged shriek. She had not been prepared for this sudden assault. The sting that the supple wood rod left in its wake overwhelmed her.
“Now, thas one, Yer Maj. Yer gonna take five more jus’ like that so’s you’ll learn better behavior. Then, I promise, me n’ Nollie will show that royal arse some better treatment…”
Another shriek. Nollie giggled and clapped.
The shock of the impact made the Queen jump, almost rising off her feet. Her naked thighs and cunt scraped against the cold tree. Pain, fear and humiliation pushed her breath from her in violent sobs, choked by the rag crumpled inside her mouth.
Whizzzzz. CRACK! CRACK!
Red gave her two swift lashes as she squirmed left and right trying to avoid the blows. Deep red lines began to emerge across the Queen’s pale ass cheeks.
A tear rolled down Isabella’s face. Her posterior in agony, her arms aching from her restraints, the Black Queen felt she would gladly accept any death rather than endure this torment any further. To think that she, the rightful sovereign of the entire Kingdom, should find herself tied to a tree, her silk underwear pulled down around her knees, having her naked buttocks beaten by a pair of filthy foot soldiers. It was insupportable.
“There now, Yer ‘Ighness. Don’t cry. It’s all over. But I ‘ope you learnt your lesson. Sumptimes even queens get a bit naughty and gotta be punished. Ain’t tha’ right, Nollie?”
“Can I touch ‘er bottom now, Red?”
The Black Queen did not hear an answer, but she did feel one. With a noisy crunching of leaves, Nollie scurried up behind her and placed his palms over her sore and throbbing cheeks. With a moan of pleasure, he began to trace the circumference of the two luscious globes, rubbing her ass down with his outspread hands in large, circular motions.
Overcome by shame and indignation, the Queen could only shut her eyes as Nollie continued his frantic exploration of her naked bottom. He began to knead and squeeze her cheeks, pushing them up and down, back and forth, playing with the Queen’s buttocks like a hyperactive child playing with a new toy.
Nollie gave his plaything a few light slaps before resuming his eager manipulation. He squeezed her ass cheeks together, then pulled them apart, exposing her more fully to the cold night air. The Queen shivered from the shock.
“Ohhhhh…” breathed Nollie, peering down at the pucker of her asshole. “Red! Red! Can I?” The Queen froze. Behind her, Nollie was making eager slurping sounds as, in near-ecstasy, he began to lick his index finger up and down.
In a moment of sheer horror, the Queen felt a single, slimy finger graze its way down her crack and come to rest just outside her anus. Her eyes opened wide as it began to twist, pushing its way inside her with a slow insistence. She wanted to scream and kick, but the best she could manage were muffled cries and a frantic bucking of her lower body that only pushed the finger in deeper.
As Nollie’s right hand invaded her asshole, his left hand continued to knead the fleshy cheeks that surrounded it. He gave her a few playful slaps and worked his finger in deeper. A few feet behind them, Red was laughing.
“Oh, if only yer ladies’n-waiting could see you now, Yer Majesty. Tied to a tree with a finger up yer bum! How’s she treatin’ you, Nollie?”
Nollie was grinning from ear to ear.
“Jus’ fine, Red. Oh, she’s a pretty one. Real pretty.”
“You’d bes’ loosen up and let ol’ Nollie in, Yer Maj, or you’ll be gettin’ another taste of the switch…”
To illustrate his point, Red walked up beside her and began to deliver a series of stinging blows with the palm of his hand to her already-tender ass. The Queen bit down hard on the dish rag between her teeth. Meanwhile, Nollie had worked his finger in almost up to the knuckle.
“Awright, Nol. The Queen’s had her punishment. You’ve had yer fun. I think it’s time she showed us some royal treatment, doncha think?”
“Oh, sure, Red. Sure.”
Nollie pulled his finger out of her ass and walked around to the front of the tree, where he began untying the Queen’s wrists. As soon as her arms were free, she began to fight, but the footman was too strong for her. He managed to grab both wrists and pull them both behind her, where Red was waiting to retie them. Once her flailing arms were secure, Nollie pinned her legs against the tree as Red carefully released her lower half. Then, between the two of them, the men lowered her down to the forest floor.
Red climbed on top of her as Nollie tore away her silk undergarments with a long rip that seemed to echo across the forest clearing. He grabbed her legs to keep her from kicking. Breathing heavily, sweating excitement through his pores, Red violently pushed her dress up past her waist. He paused for a moment, staring down at the elegantly trimmed patch of black pubic hair. Still pinning her shoulder down with one hand, he reached down with the other to feel the soft folds of her pussy.
As he did so, the Queen realized with horror how moist she was. It was a response her body had always had to danger. She often found herself growing damp as she rode into battle, never aroused exactly but certainly stimulated in some sense. She was mortified that this physiological response might now look like a sign of pleasure to her captors.
“Well, what have we here? It looks like we won’t be needing to use that bacon grease after all, Nollie. Her Majesty’s been gettin’ all hot and bothered.”
She struggled with all her might, trying to knock the old peasant off her, but the two footmen held her firm.
“I’d lie a liddle more still if I was you, Yer Ighness…” hissed Red, and from behind his back, he produced a large hunting knife.
The Black Queen was terrified, and, for a few moments, did indeed lie still. Red grabbed the collar of her beautiful black gown and began to saw at it with the knife. Immediately, it began to tear, and Red continued to slice his way down the dress’s front, mutilating the expensive vestment beyond recognition. Eventually, her corset was exposed. Red began to slice away at the strings that held it tight, finally tearing it asunder and allowing the Queen’s bountiful breasts to pop free.
The Black Queen screamed into her cloth muzzle. She was completely helpless and exposed. Tatters of her dress hung here and there, but her body was largely laid bare, exposed to the cold wind and the cruel whims of this leathery goblin.
Red, for his part, was dumbfounded by the huge, gorgeous bosom that the Queen’s corset had concealed. He reached down and grabbed one of the immaculate white mounds, squeezing and caressing it. He took hold of one of her nipples and began to pinch it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Jeeeezuz… Will ya look at that, Nollie? I hain’t never seen a whore wif ninnies that big. Has you?”
“They’re big awright, Red,” replied Nollie, putting more pressure on the Queen’s legs to prevent a new fit of kicking.
Red let go of her breasts and reached for his crotch. He unsnapped the white trouser flap, and, with some careful pushing and tugging, released his throbbing erection into the chilly night air. When the Queen saw this, she began to struggle all the more, and Red was forced to pin her shoulders down once again.
Nollie backed off a little, and Red maneuvered himself between the Queen’s legs. Using his right hand to guide, he slowly eased the head of his penis inside her. Shrieking and sobbing beneath her gag, the helpless monarch tried her best to pull away, but Red, with his superior leverage, was able to force his stiff cock deeper and deeper into her.
“Ohhh, Lordy,” he groaned, “if me ol’ Pa could see me now. I may notta had the luck to be born a gentleman, but, by God, at least He’s given me the chance to fuck a proper lady.”
As he humped her squirming body, the Queen’s legs began to lash out, landing a series of ineffective kicks on Red’s back. Ignoring this futile resistance, he grabbed her breasts, using this fleshy handhold for support as he pounded away at her.
In no time at all, however, the aging soldier came to the end of his stamina. With an appreciative moan, he thrust one last time into the Queen and stopped. With a wave terrible nausea, she imagined she could feel his penis pulsate and expel its grotesque load inside her body.
“Ahhhhh…” sighed Red, pulling out and rising to his feet, “Yer Ighness is a damn fine fuck, I must say. I hain’t tasted a tart that juicy in years.”
“My turn, Red? Huh?” asked Nollie, clapping his hands together absent-mindedly and bouncing around the Queen’s prostrate body in anticipation.
“Sure sure. She’s all yers, Nol’. Jus’ be quick. It’s almost dawn, and we gotta meet up with ‘Is ‘Oliness.”
Using what little energy she had left, the Black Queen rolled over onto her stomach and attempted to rise to her feet, the tatters of her dress and corset still hanging off her shoulders. She did not manage a single step, however, before Nollie grabbed her around the waist and held her tight.
“Red! Red! Help me get ‘er dress off!”
Red rebuttoned his trousers and picked up his knife. With Nollie holding her steady, he went to work on the remainder of the Queen’s clothing. With a few well placed slashes and rips, the black dress fell loosely to the pine needles below. The Black Queen was completely naked, shivering against the cold and struggling in Nollie’s arms.
Nollie dragged her over to a small boulder stump near the campfire and roughly forced her down on her knees and over the rock. Red came over to assist by pinning down her torso, smashing her breasts down against the cool stone and forcing her ass up into the air.
“You ever been fucked like a dog, Yer Majesty?” asked Red, smirking insufferably, “Cuz I think thas’ what ol’ Nollie here has in mind for you…”
The Black Queen shut her eyes, trying desperately to pretend that this nightmare wasn’t happening. She tried to imagine she was somewhere else: The beautiful gardens in the courtyard of the palace library where she loved to spend her afternoons reading. The woods near Aardmore Castle where she used to secretly rendezvous with Sir William. Anywhere. She wanted desperately to escape, but she was jerked forcibly back to reality by the second White footman’s penis forcing its way from behind into her cunny.
Nollie’s cock was much larger than Red’s, and it took some insistence to get it inside, all the more so due to Queen’s intermittent and feeble struggles. Nollie had to grab her hips firmly and gradually guide his prick in between her pink lips. His thrusts started out slow, but gained momentum as he grew more confident.
“Ohhhh… Ohh yeah…” Nollie sighed as he started ramming himself ever more rapidly against the Queen’s ass, his belly making an almost comical slapping sound as it collided over and over again with her whip-marked cheeks.
With one hand, the younger soldier held tight to the rope that bound the Queen’s wrists behind her back, forcing her shoulders back and her head up as her naked body rocked back and forth against the rock over which she’d been draped. Nollie’s other hand gripped the Queen’s hip tightly, yanking her ass violently back into his prick as he fucked her.
The Queen’s second ordeal lasted much longer than the first, and, as the tall, gangly foot soldier continued to thrust his penis in and out of her, his fingers digging into her hip, Isabella felt the merciful caress of unconsciousness arrive to relieve her of the pain in her arms and her chest and between her legs.
Just before she passed out, Queen Isabella dimly heard Nollie cry out in ecstasy as he released his disgusting juices into her defenseless cunt.
When she awoke—moments or hours later, it was impossible to tell—her naked body was lying next to the fire and covered by a dirty blanket. Staring down at her were, not two, but three faces.
“You…” she croaked. “You will hang for this . . . I swear it.”
The middle face bent down, and it was only then that she noticed the white miter billowing up from his skull like a misshapen toadstool. She knew this man. Thomas Trolwick, Archbishop of Evanshire. What was a man of his rank doing among these brigands?
The Bishop eyed her bare shoulders, sticking out from the blanket. He frowned a disapproving frown and crossed himself.
“Like we was sayin’, Yer ‘Oliness . . .”
The Black Queen cringed at the voice of the ugly old foot soldier who had beaten and defiled her.
“ . . . a powerful spell indeed. I swear on me father’s grave. She’s a witch jus’ like they all say, sure as the nose on me face. Soon as we capture her, she starts openin’ ‘er legs up to us, tryinta’ seduce us. Me n’ Nollie we resist as best two mortal men can, but what chance do we ‘ave gainst black magic like wut this witch queen ‘as. Before we can do a thing, she’s takin’ off ‘er clothes an’ drawin’ us into ‘er and sayin’- . . .”
“Enough!” The Bishop held up a hand with two raised fingers to silence the footman. “The tales of the Lady Isabella’s lasciviousness are well known. That she attempted to use her body to gain her freedom I have no doubt.”
“That’s just what she did!” exclaimed Nollie. “Lassivied the pants right off me. Right, Red?”
“Thaas jus’ wut ‘appened, Nol,” said Red. “Now, Yer ‘Oliness. ‘Ere’s yer traitor queen. All in one piece. Jus’ like we found ‘er. Or near as. She’s all yers. Now such service to God and the realm . . . why, I ‘spect that earns some reward, if ya beg me pardon?”
The Bishop nodded gravely and gestured behind him. From out of the darkness emerged two soldiers in White uniforms, crisper and more professional than those of the Queen’s two grubby assailants. Wordlessly, one grabbed Nollie and one grabbed Red. In one fluid motion, each pulled a dagger and drew it briskly across his victim’s throat. Nollie and Red both dropped to their knees in unison, blood gushing from their wounds.
As the death gurgles of the two footmen slowed and faded, the Bishop knelt beside the Black Queen. He fixed her with a pair of pale, empty eyes which flickered with reflected firelight. She drew her blanket tighter around her nude body and shrank away.
“You shall come with me, Lady Isabella. And we shall cure you of your wickedness.”