Queen Captured – Act II: Bishop (scene iii)


Fourth 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.

“My William.”

He was bare-chested. Smooth skin, boyish even in its lack of hair or blemishes. But then he was four years her junior, she had to remember. Not far removed from boyhood, even now, so long after that first night in the garden. That night that seemed ages ago, a scene from another time in history, another story, another genre.

But Sir William Cantor, her William, was nonetheless a man, thought the Black Queen as she lightly traced the cleft between his sweat-glistened pectoral muscles with the nail of her pinky. Definitively a man. She had seen to that.

“My William. My William. My William.”

She sounded just like her empty-headed handmaidens, the ones that hyperventilated whenever some foppish courtier smiled in their direction. But it felt good to say his name, to reaffirm that he was hers, the one thing she had that was not held in trust for the greater good of the Kingdom, the one thing that was hers alone. She ran her fingers through his shoulder-length blonde hair, pulling taut his curls to where they met the meadow, interweaving with the grass in lustrous rivers.

He let out a sigh, a sigh that vibrated across his ribcage in a growling baritone. A manly sigh. Sprawled out upon his verdant pastoral mattress, he opened one eye to squint up at her, as if slyly stealing an illicit glance. He met her pale green, gold-flecked eyes one at a time. As he did so, his gaze crossed over the sparse constellation of light freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and spilled tentatively onto her cheeks, the freckles that had always made her slightly self-conscious but which Sir William claimed to find irresistible.

He reached up and slipped his hand snugly between her arm and torso, near the spot where her breast might have rested if her corset had not lifted it up and away, his grip gentle but firm. His gaze floated down her face and drifted in zig zags across her upper body, taking her in. He smiled that smile of his.

Queen Isabella looked down herself, and she could not help but share his admiration. She was wearing her favorite riding top. Black, of course, with pleated folds of silk that followed her curves and a collar that swooped elegantly downward, showing her neck and collarbones to fine effect.

Suddenly, William began to laugh. Ordinarily, the sound of her lover’s carefree laughter was a source of joy to Isabella. His easy, playful manner, counterpoint to her own sober outlook on the world, was part of the young knight’s charm. Now, though, there was a tone of mockery that set Isabella on edge. What was he laughing at?

It was then that Isabella realized that she had forgotten her riding trousers. Glancing downward again—how had she not noticed before?—she saw that the fashionable outfit of which she’d been so proud a moment before stopped suddenly at her hips. Below, the soft grass of the meadow met bare skin. She had on her boots, the crisp black leather hugging her calves all the way to the sharp cuff laced just below her knee. But otherwise she was naked from the waist down.

Sir William’s laughter grew louder as the Queen looked down at herself dumbfounded.

“William! It’s not funny! What have you done with my trousers?”

Her voice echoed in her head, as if it was coming from someone else. The meadow seemed to spin, and for a moment it was as if she was looking down at herself and Sir William from above. She could see the comical figure she cut, dressed in her finest riding clothes but for this one glaring patch of nudity.

Had she ridden her horse like this? She felt suddenly she could remember doing so, the feeling of her mount’s hair-covered muscles between her thighs as she trotted bareback through the countryside. She squirmed in embarrassment and also a strange sense of excitement, acutely conscious, as she had not been before, of the hundreds of tiny blades of grass tickling and caressing the most sensitive parts of her body.

“Trousers are not appropriate attire for a lady.” William’s voice sounded strange. It was not his voice. It was someone else’s. “Don’t you remember? Your father told you so.”

That wasn’t true! Others had disapproved of her, scoffed or engaged in scandalized gossip. But her father had understood that you can’t control a horse properly in a gown. It had been his own personal tailor who had crafted many of her wardrobe’s most practical-yet-feminine riding trousers.

“Be serious, William! Give them back to me this instant!”

“If you’ll not wear clothes befitting a proper young lady, you’ll wear nothing at all. Now, speak to me again in that tone and I will take you across my knee for a punishment you’ll not soon forget!”

The Queen looked down at her consort, taken entirely aback. But it wasn’t William lying there is the grass. It was the Old King, grey beard and all, gazing at her sternly. Isabella joggled her head in confusion. How had she mistaken her father for Sir William? Why was he lying here with her in this field?

She pulled back. Newly self-conscious, she placed her hand flat in front of her naked crotch. At the sensation of the smoothness against her palm, she noticed for the first time that she was cleanly shaved. When had she done that? No sooner had this mystery confronted her than she noticed the pale pink markings that radiated out from her cunt and criss-crossed down her thighs. Abruptly, she was aware of a soreness throbbing across her bare bottom.

“Don’t you try to cover yourself in front of me!”

Suddenly her father was looming over her. His Highness the indomitable Grey Lion, eyes flinty with fierce authority. Isabella froze speechless, cowed into a state of childlike awe, as the Old King grabbed her wrist and wrenched it away.

“Don’t play at modesty now, you little tramp! I know! I know all about you and that Cantor rogue! How dare you bring disgrace upon your royal name with your wantonness!”

Her father grabbed her other wrist and pushed her down onto her back. Roughly pinning her hands against the grass above her head, he climbed on top of her. Queen Isabella struggled and struggled but found she could not move.

The Old King opened his mouth. Isabella looked away with a whimper, expecting another torrent of uncharacteristic cruelty, but instead the grey-bearded king let out a strange noise that Isabella at first took for some sort of growl. Then the surreal vocalization rose in pitch until it became unmistakable as the creak of a door, a sustained whine that quickly hijacked all of Isabella’s senses.

All other sound disappeared. The feeling of the grass beneath her body vanished, replaced by cold hard flatness. Even the sunlight was extinguished, and she found herself abruptly surrounded by blackness. There was only the creak.

And then he was gone. One moment her father was straddling her, pouring paternal fury down upon her paralyzed body, the next she was alone. Yet, when she jerked upwards with a startled gasp, she found her wrists were still pinned to the floor, and she was yanked back down onto her back. The meadow was gone. Her riding boots. Her elegant top. Breathing heavily, she looked around her in disorientation, finding herself chained naked to the floor surrounded by darkness.

And it all came flooding back.

How long had she been asleep? It could not possibly have been long. It seemed she had lain awake for hours, tormented by despair and desperation. Indeed, it astonished her that she could slumber under these conditions, but the combination of her fatigue and the sensory deprivation of the lightless chamber must at some point have overwhelmed her.

It was then that she noticed the chamber was no longer quite lightless. The door was open, and reflections of candlelight flickered around the corner from the other room. As the Queen’s eyes adjusted, she saw two silhouettes slip through. Then that same creak that had woken her from her dream filled the room again, and the door slammed shut.

One of the figures held a candle outstretched, illuminating their path but not throwing sufficient light upon the figures themselves for the chained queen to make out who they were. As they came closer, though, first the white cloth of their uniforms and then their half-shadowed faces emerged from the darkness.

They stopped just short of her shackled body. The glow of the candle swooped downward, drifting appreciatively across the hills and valleys of her nudity, lingering with lecherous emphasis upon key regions. Guiding the candle on its voyeuristic tour was Duncan, the guard who’d held her fast against his own body in the abbey bathhouse while the nuns had stripped her naked, who’d watched with ill-disguised enjoyment as the women molested her, who’d been present as she’d been bound and flogged by the sadistic White Bishop.

Standing beside him, looking down at the captive queen with equal interest, was the guard the Bishop had called Theodore. He was slightly older than his comrade, his short-cropped black beard flecked in silver and interrupted on his right cheek by a light scar that ran all the way up to the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve misgivings, Brother,” Theodore whispered, not taking his eyes for a moment off the Queen’s candlelit form, his tone almost reverent. “Should we be here?”

“What choice do we have, Brother?” Duncan whispered back. “Simple Christian men like we, we were not made to withstand sorceries conjured by the Black Witch herself. You felt her pull did you not?”

“Aye, Brother. Her devilry’s been preying on me since I first laid eyes on her. Wearing at my fortitude. I felt her unholy presence with me, even as I knew her mortal body to be tied down safe in the tower. She is a powerful sorceress to be sure.”

“Then it’s just as I told you. We must do as we must. Is not the hair of the dog the swiftest cure for a corrupted bite? Surely it is no sin to free oneself of demonic influence.”

Isabella bit down hard on the cloth-wrapped rod between her teeth, letting out a gurgling, muffled cry of protest and lament. The candlelight fell upon her face, and she flinched against the sudden brightness. The two men looked down on her in silence for a moment longer before Duncan finally squatted down and reached over her to place the candle on the floor, equidistant between her torso and her raised elbow. When he rose, he and his companion disappeared into shadows.

“You first, Brother,” came Duncan’s voice from beyond the small pool of light in which the Queen lay fettered.

Isabella raised her head to see shadow feet stepping over the chains that bound her ankles. They stopped between her spread legs. She could hear heavy breathing and then the rustles and clinks of armor being adjusted, buckles being unbuckled, ringmail being unhooked. Something heavy was thrown to the floor nearby.

“Nuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh! . . .” she wailed through her gag and began to yank with futile vigor against her manacles, trying desperately to close her splayed legs or lash out with her pinioned hands.

As the Queen furiously rattled her chains, wriggling this way and that in short impotent bursts like a beetle caught in a spider’s web, Brother Theodore knelt down between her legs. His scarred, bearded face came into the light as it leaned down to hover with breathless anticipation just above the smooth pink furrows of her forcibly spread pussy.

He reached out to touch it. Isabella shivered and groaned in shame as he lightly brushed, then fondled, then groped the smooth expanse of her loins before abruptly plunging his thumb up inside her, working it deeper and deeper in exploratory circuits. To her dismay, she realized that her disturbing sexual dream had left her somewhat moist. But before she could take in this horrifying realization, the guard removed his invasive digit and leaned in closer. Gripping her open thighs for balance, he pressed his face between her legs and began to lick her.

“Nuuh . . . huh . . . nnnnrrrg!” Isabella grunted, her hips and lower abdomen floundering desperately to escape as the guard’s tongue lapped up and down in long wet strides.

Clutching the Queen’s thighs tighter, Brother Theodore pulled her towards his eager mouth, lifting her ass fully from the floor while he slurped at her womanhood from top to bottom. Her back arched, and her wrists strained their shackles, pulling the chains taut. Shamefully, waves of sexual release began to build within her.

Abruptly, the guard dropped her lower half back onto the stone floor. And then he was on top of her. She felt the head of his penis nudge at her wet opening before sliding into her with a surprising lack of resistance.@ @Brother Theodore thrust into her, each brutish shove of his cock punctuated by a wheezy grunt. At first he hovered above her, propping himself partially upright with one hand on the stone floor and one hand clutching fast to her hip, watching her breasts rock side to side as she struggled against his assault. As his thrusts increased in speed and intensity, though, he let more and more of his weight fall against her body until he was laying on top of her, his beard brushing against the metal fasteners that held her bit in place while, down below, the muscles of his groin and buttocks took on the job of grinding his cock into the captive queen.

Finally, mercifully, he finished. He let out a final raspy sigh that fell hot and moist against the side of Isabella’s face, and his pelvis shuddered and then fell still. He lay on top of her for a moment longer, breathing heavily. Isabella moaned despondently through her gag and gave one of her shackles a feeble tug but otherwise lay motionless beneath the Bishop’s scarred servant.

Eventually, he lifted himself up, his penis sliding out of her. He knelt in the space between her forcibly spread legs while he adjusted his uniform. Before standing, he produced a kerchief and leaned over to wipe away some of the sweat and semen from around the Queen’s hairless cunt, as if politely cleaning off a piece of shared equipment  for the next person who might need to make use of it.

“I believe it worked,” he panted as he stood. “I can feel the witch’s hold on me lessened. She is yours now, Brother.”

Leaving Isabella no time for respite or recovery, Brother Duncan was suddenly on top of her, his cock already out, hard and searching for her hole. Finding his target, the brawny guard inserted himself forcefully into the chained noblewoman’s already lubricated pussy.

Duncan grabbed her breasts with both hands and squeezed, shoving them roughly together and upwards towards her face. He slammed into her. Isabella’s chains jangled in tempo with the violent thrusts.

The pounding grew faster and faster. Isabella felt a hand on her throat, just beneath her chin, forcefully turning her face upwards. The Queen opened her eyes to meet those of her assailant, looming above her so close that their noses almost touched. His nostrils were flaring rhythmically with his exertion, huffing for breath with a soft, determined hum. Eyes wild, face red, his expression was as much one of anger as pleasure. Gradually, fingers and thumb began to close around the Queen’s windpipe. After a few terrified gulps for air, Isabella found that she couldn’t breathe.

She thrashed hard, trying to shake the guard off her or at least loosen his grip on her throat, but Brother Duncan simply incorporated her struggles into his thrusts, seeming to derive pleasure from the increased liveliness of his victim. Moments later, with a vocal grunt he gave one final forceful shove into Isabella before releasing his grasp around her neck and pulling his slick cock out of her vagina in a single, disdainful motion.

He stood. As he meticulously refastened his belt, the two guards looked down on the pitiful figure who claimed to be their rightful sovereign and whose helpless body they had used for their pleasure. Sobs of shame burbled through the wooden bit between her teeth as their seed slowly oozed down her forcibly spread thighs.

“Sweet dreams, Your Highness,” said Brother Duncan, and he stooped down to grab the candle.

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