Queen Captured – Act II: Bishop (scene i)

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Second 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.

“I heard she’s been w’ every man at court. ‘Er father the Old King and her uncle the duke included. Can you imagine? God save us from such wantonness.”

“It’s the Devil gives her her beauty. And her dark powers, so they say. Every night a demon slips into her bedchambers, hooves and horns and scaley skin and all, and the princess she lunges for the foul creature’s manhood like a woman starving—beg me pardon, sisters, but I’m only telling what I’ve heard—she puts the demon’s bulging black prick into her mouth and she swallows its seed, what keeps her skin fair and her bosom so unnatural buoyant. It’s true. I had it from a page who heard it from the Black Lady’s own chambermaid who seen it happen night after night . . .”

“God preserve us . . .”

Once again, the Black Queen found herself badly disoriented as to her location. She remembered the events that brought her here in jumbled bits and pieces. The White soldiers with their throats slit, dropping to the ground beside her. The beak-like nose and beady eyes of Bishop Trolwick, drawing close in the firelight. The bishop’s men lifting her roughly to her feet, her blanket falling, exposing her nakedness. Her tattered black gown slipped over her shoulders, providing some small measure of modesty before she was draped across the back of a horse like a sack of millet, her body secured tightly to the saddlebags with lengths of rope like so much luggage.

Somewhere during the long uncomfortable journey, amid the painful bouncing and jostling, her naked breasts swinging freely out from the tears in her shredded dress, she had drifted into something like sleep. Now she was elsewhere.

She was upright, seated on some sort of hard, unforgiving chair. The rigid wood beneath her magnified the pain emanating from her buttocks where the two White ruffians had beaten her with their makeshift rod. She groaned and shifted her weight and found her wrists bound to the stiff arms of the chair with iron bands.

She was no longer wearing the remnants of her shredded gown. Instead, she was covered with a straight brown cassock, little more than a bag with holes for head and arms, woven from a coarse cloth that scratched and irritated her bare skin. The uniform of a penitent.

Blinking forcefully to dislodge the dirt and sleep from her eyes, she lifted her head and squinted out at her surroundings. She was seated in the middle of a stark, bare room. A cell of some sort, though it was no dungeon if the narrow beams of sunlight slicing slim patterns across the stone floor were any indication. Before her stood three women, all wearing the simple brown habits of the Order of St. Martinette.

“Ah. The harlot wakes . . .” muttered one of the nuns, a stout matronly figure with a prominent, hairy mole high on her left cheek.

The Black Queen met the woman’s eyes, and she seemed to shrink back under the force of the regal gaze, shuffling her feet. Her mouth twitched with the effort to maintain her confident sneer. The Queen’s gaze swept slowly down the line. The woman in the center was both taller and older, with an angular face and a pinched, judgmental mouth. The Queen stared hard at the nun, but the woman did not seem as easily cowed as her fat companion. Stiff-backed and impassive, she stared right back at the Queen with unblinking gray eyes. There was a haughtiness to her that both infuriated and frightened the shackled monarch.

“You are to come with us, My Lady,” said old nun without changing expression. “Can you walk?”

The Queen ran her tongue around a raw dry mouth, gauging her ability to produce intelligible speech.

“Where . . .?” she finally croaked.

“Evanshire Abbey, My Lady,” the woman responded. “Home to the holy relic of the ears of St. Bartleby as well as the tomb of King Francis the Repentant.”

Under different circumstances, the Black Queen might have laughed. She had visited the Abbey as a young princess and been forced to pay her respects to the ridiculous shriveled flaps of skin that the Evanshire monks kept in a velvet box. She had openly snickered about it afterwards, with the encouragement of her uncle, the future Duke Aardmore.

As for her great-grandfather King Francis I, Queen Isabella knew her histories well enough to know he was far from repentant; the concessions he had granted to the Church on his deathbed were pure political expediency, something she had not been shy about discussing upon her visit to his grandiose tomb.

Not for the first time, the Queen was forced to wonder whether the open contempt she had shown in her youth for the Church, for its silly rituals and superstitions no less than its myriad hypocrisies, had been her downfall. With the exception of a handful of local bishops who had close ties to the Duchy of Aardmore, the Kingdom’s clergy had overwhelmingly sided with the Whites. Several of the White bishops controlled key territory, including Evanshire.

Queen Isabella badly wished she could have earlier reconciled herself to the realm’s powerful religious interests, much as her ancestor King Francis had done, no matter how many boxes of disgusting severed ears she had to kneel before.

But it was too late now. She was captured. The war was effectively over. All that remained now was to negotiate a dignified peace, preferably one that allowed her to keep her head and perhaps some remnant of her grandfather’s lands. Paying fealty to her sister and her sister’s husband would be a difficult pill to swallow, but it must be endured.

And the reign of a monarch might see many changes of fortune. If she lived, the Black Cause might well be resurrected in the fullness of time. What had happened to her in the forest with those lowborn soldiers had been traumatic, but they were dead and she was alive. She was strong and would survive.

“Tell your . . . your Lord,” she said hoarsely, “I am . . . am ready . . . to discuss . . . terms.”

The fat nun snorted in derision but deferred to her elder, who merely pursed her lips tighter before answering.

“The righteous have no terms to discuss with the wicked but repentance,” she said. “But we are to take you before His Purity and Grace the Bishop soon enough. You are not yet fit to enter the Abbey’s Inner Sanctum. Once you have been cleansed and purified, then you may appear before His Purity and Grace and Our Lord God to confess your sins and plead mercy. Sister Genevieve, release the Lady Isabella from her restraints.”

“Yes, Sister Agnes.”

The Queen turned her head to regard the third nun, who had been standing deferentially behind her stern, gray-eyed sister. She was younger than the other two, perhaps no more than four or five years into womanhood. She was pretty, even beneath the drab brown coif that covered her hair and fell down around her cheeks and neck. As she came forward and crouched beside the wooden chair to which Isabella was bolted, the Queen found herself examining the young nun’s features, struck by something familiar in her pale blue eyes.

Sister Genevieve unlatched the lock at the Queen’s right wrist, and hinge of the restraint creaked as the metal band flipped open. The Queen lifted her arm experimentally. When the nun came around to her other side and released her other arm, the Queen thought briefly of lashing out. Unlike most women at court, her education had included training in basic combat techniques, and, in peak condition, she had no doubt that she could overwhelm the three nuns and make her escape.

But her body was still stiff and her mind still cloudy from her ordeal. She did not trust her reflexes. Besides, she could not imagine these nuns had been sent to retrieve her without the Bishop’s armed guards waiting nearby. A rash escape attempt now might foreclose a better opportunity down the line. The wise course was to gain access to the White Bishop as soon as possible. He would be able to relay treaty terms between her and Joan (“Queen Joan,” she reminded herself bitterly) setting her on the humiliating but necessary path that would take her back to Aardmore Castle in defeat.

Still, the urge to grab this sweet Genevieve girl by the hair and smash her head against the stone floor was powerful.

Instead, Isabella allowed the young nun to place her hands on the Queen’s elbow and help her to rise. Isabella winced, as the chafing of the cassock, as well as the stiffness of her legs and the blood rushing back to her injured bottom, all competed for the attention of her pain receptors. Wobbling uncertainly, she found her feet and straightened up with all the dignity she could muster. Her shapeless tunic came to rest just below her knees. A cool breeze from the cell’s narrow windows snaked beneath, reminding her that she had on nothing underneath the coarse penitent’s vestment.

Sister Agnes then rapped a fist against the cell door. It was promptly opened, and, indeed, on the other side stood a guard in full chainmail with an imposing halberd at his side. The Queen was glad she had refrained from breaking any of the nuns’ bones.

With the guard trailing behind, the three women led the Black Queen through the halls of the Abbey. As she stumbled along, mindful of her bare feet on the uneven stone walkways, Sister Genevieve addressed her in a soft tone that Isabella couldn’t immediately read.

“Do you remember me, My Lady?”

Isabella looked over her shoulder at the young nun, stubbing a toe as she did so. The fat nun yanked roughly at her arm when she paused.

“Keep moving, witch,” she growled under her breath.

“I served at the palace as a girl,” Sister Genevieve continued. “Before my vows.”

“That’s enough, Sister,” chastised Sister Agnes. “As we discussed, it is dangerous to engage the Lady Isabella in conversation. We do not know the extent of her corruption.”

The Queen did not look back again, but her memory had indeed been spurred. The girl had been one of her handmaidens. The association was hazy but not pleasant. The Queen had the vague sense that, like many of the young girls assigned to wait on then-Princess Isabella, Genevieve had not been treated with much kindness.

Though never intentionally cruel, Isabella had always been bossy and willful, both as a matter of nature and upbringing. She did not regard ignorance or incompetence within her household with any sort of charity. In her youth especially, she had been known to humiliate and belittle the women in her circle who were less well-read or quick-witted.

The effect would have been magnified with respect to the youngest girls at court, towards whom a certain amount of baseline bullying by the older cohorts was to be expected. It was a casual meanness that the Queen often looked back on with regret. She wondered how the young Genevieve, who had apparently since pledged herself to God, remembered her and how she was reacting to seeing her former mistress debased in this way, marched around like a common prisoner, barefoot and dressed in a dirty sack.

She was led down a flight of stone stairs and felt the air grow hot and humid. Sister Agnes opened a thick oak door, and steam drifted out of the room beyond. The Abbey’s baths. Of course. Purified for the Inner Sanctum. Despite herself, the Queen felt a wave of gratitude. She enjoyed bathing and had always done so with a frequency that her peers found eccentric. It had been many days since she had been able to wash herself. If ritual ablution meant the chance to rid herself of some of the sweat and grime that had accumulated on her body since she first set out for Malburgh, then she thanked God for His fussy approach to hygiene.

The nuns led her into the subterranean bathhouse. It was not as large as the cavernous rooms beneath the palace or even those of Aardmore Castle, but it was well kept. At the center was a tiled, recessed tub which looked to be about waist-deep. The room’s ample torchlight bounced off the surface of the water, casting shimmering reflections on the stone pillars and the wooden benches that ringed the square pool.

“Sister Ruth, stoke the furnace please. Sister Geneveive, fetch more water.”

Sister Agnes directed her subordinate sisters with crisp waves of her hands.

“Brother Duncan, please shut that door.”

To Isabella’s dismay, she saw that the guard had followed them into the chamber. He dutifully shut the door behind him and turned back around to regard the Queen with feigned disinterest.

Sister Ruth shortly returned and, in her thick-hipped waddle, sidled up to the Penitent Queen.

“Hot as she’s going to get, I wager. It’ll take more’n soap to wash this‘un clean, Sister. But shall we do as the Bishop bids?”

Sister Agnes nodded.

“Relieve Lady Isabella of her vestments, please.”

The Queen’s breath caught in her throat. She was used to bathing with the assistance of servants, of course. But she was generally afforded more modesty. Never would someone dare help disrobe her without the Queen’s express instruction. Never would one of her servingwomen watch her remove her clothes as Sister Agnes now appeared ready to do, without even pretending to avert her eyes.

And this was to say nothing of the impropriety of having a male attendant present. She glanced over at the Abbey guardsman Duncan, who had remained silent and stoic but who Isabella had noticed licking his lips, his hands fidgeting up and down the pole of his halberd as he waited for the beautiful Black Queen to be stripped of her sole garment.

By now Sister Genevieve had returned, carrying two brimming buckets. Queen Isabella faced the three nuns and the male sentry, her back to tub. The reflections off the water caused her black hair to flicker and flare. Marshaling her tone of command, she prepared to berate them all for their impertinence.

Before she could form the words, Sister Ruth grabbed the hem of her cassock and yanked it upward with a surprising force. And, with the unexpected assault, Isabella’s regal address disintegrated into a shrill gasp.

She was thrown off balance as the fabric suddenly brushed and bunched its way up her thighs, tugged violently left and right by the nun as she sought to lift the garment free of the Queen’s curves. Before Isabella could process what was happening, the simple brown frock was bunched up around her torso, and the trim patch of black hair that covered her royal crotch was exposed to the room, dancing back and forth as Isabella stumbled to regain her balance.

The stout nun continued to tug upwards, but the friction around the Queen’s chest, where her breasts—which were much more robust than the makers of the simple penitent’s tunic clearly anticipated—pulled the material taut. Suddenly, Isabella regained her footing and grabbed at Sister Ruth’s wrist, wrenching it away from her clothes. With her other hand, she landed a swift slap across the nun’s face. Sister Ruth dropped the hem of the vestment and staggered backwards in surprise.

The Black Queen swiftly covered herself once again, smoothing the brown tunic back down over her thighs. She faced them defiantly. Sister Ruth looked as if she was about to make a run at her when she was stopped by a wave of Sister Agnes’s hand.

“Lady Isabella, you forget yourself. You are here to learn humility and repentance. I’m afraid that sort of behavior will not be tolerated. Brother Duncan?”

The guard set his weapon down against the wall and stepped toward the Queen menacingly. Isabella took an involuntary step backward, the steaming tub of water at her back cutting off any further retreat. A sense of powerlessness crawled up her skin like a winter chill. There was nowhere to run or dodge. And to fight bare-fisted against the Bishop’s thug, clad as he was in leather and mail, was clear folly. Yet she could not let herself be cowed. Only by firm resistance would these impudent rogues learn to treat her with due deference. She glanced behind her again at the water. Perhaps if she . . .

Too late! With unexpected agility, a thick leather glove lunged out from her periphery and snapped shut around her bicep. The Queen twisted and tried to jerk free even as she whipped her other arm around in long arc, fingers taloned, towards the guard’s exposed face. But either Brother Duncan’s reflexes were especially keen or her own especially dulled; the guard easily caught her left wrist in his left glove before it could cause any damage.

Manipulating her like a rag doll, the burley guard spun the Black Queen back around to face the three nuns, causing her to gasp in pain at the brutal contortion of her shoulders. He positioned himself behind her, the crushing force of his leather grip finding its way to her elbows as he pinned her arms to her sides. She tried to kick, but her naked heel merely connected painfully with the iron buckles of the guard’s high boot. Her struggles gradually decreased and dimmed, muffled by their own futility.

She faced the three women, immobile but for her heavy breathing, her chest rising and falling in exaggerated waves as the pressure from her pinioned arm squeezed her ribcage from both sides. Sister Agnes stepped forward.

“When we defy and disobey God’s will, Lady Isabella, we only bring unnecessary suffering on ourselves. Your sinfulness must surely have blinded you if you cannot see that.”

From within the folds of her habit, the old nun produced a small, curved knife. She leaned in close and rested the blade against the Queen’s collarbone.

“You may now add to your transgressions the unnecessary needlework you have created for the Abbey’s seamstresses.”

With that, Sister Agnes sawed a notch into the center of the brown cassock’s collar and drew her knife downward. The crudely-woven cloth gave way easily. With a satisfying riiiiip, its threads parted rapidly, following the jagged path of the nun’s blade down Isabella’s paralyzed body.

As the tear in the garment cleared her chest, the Black Queen’s ample tits bounced free, pushing the severed flaps of fabric to either side. The monarch let out an audible gasp of surprise and shame but was careful to remain motionless lest the knife cut more than her clothes.

Sister Agnes grabbed half of the torn vestment and pulled upward to bring greater leverage to bear on her blade. The rip quickly zig-zagged its way down past Isabella’s stomach and crotch before freeing itself at the brown garment’s hem. The sides of the dress dropped away, exposing the Queen’s front from top to bottom.

Promptly, the nun turned her attention to the sleeves, slicing one away, then the other, and the entire penitent’s robe fell to the floor in one piece, leaving the Queen completely naked, still pinned firmly by the guard’s iron handhold to the front of his body.

“I had hoped for better from you, Lady Isabella,” Sister Agnes lectured with a tone of infuriating superiority. “The Bishop will be disappointed to hear how difficult you’ve made this.”

The Bishop. In her resolve to teach these impertinent women that she was not some common prisoner, Queen Isabella had nearly lost sight of her only way forward. The sooner she could find audience with the Bishop, the sooner she could negotiate her freedom.

“I had hoped our pious brother might be able to keep his clothes dry, but if the only way to make you fit to enter the Inner Sanctum is to have Brother Duncan bathe you, that is what we must do.”

“I will do as duty requires, Sister,” came a gravelly mumble just above Isabella’s ear.

She involuntarily squirmed. As she did, her naked thighs and bottom rubbed against the craggy ringlets of the guard’s chainmail tunic. Suddenly, she could feel something swelling, even from beneath the guard’s layer of armor, something pushing with sickening insistence into her lower back. With a sense of nausea, she began to imagine herself pinned down as this Church thug ran his hands all over her, soaping her, scrubbing her, wiping her dry.

Sister Agnes folded her arms behind her back and met the Queen’s frightened eyes with a stern, patronizing look.

“Is that what you want? . . .”

There was an awkward silence as the two women stared at one another. The Queen’s naked breasts heaved up and down as she panted in discomfort and desperation. The bulge in Brother Duncan’s trousers grew steadily more prominent, pressing against her bare skin with a lewdness that was now impossible to ignore.

“. . . Or are you calm enough that Sisters Geneveive and Ruth can manage your ablutions unaided?”

The Black Queen swallowed hard. To humble herself before this pompous nun was unendurable. But having her body forcibly washed by Brother Duncan as these women watched would do nothing for her pride. To subject herself to further agony and debasement for no purpose was foolish.

“Very well. Let’s get on with it . . .” she whispered, lowering her eyes.

When there was no response, the Queen looked back up to find Sister Agnes looking at her with one raised eyebrow and pursed lips, as if Isabella’s words had been ambiguous.

“I . . . I will bathe . . . bathe myself. . .” she stammered desperately.

The old nun continued to look at her silently, her expression unchanged.

” . . . with Sister . . . Sister Genevieve’s assistance . . .” the Queen offered.

Finally, Sister Agnes grunted and shrugged, as if placated but not entirely satisfied.

“You may release her, Brother Duncan,” she said. “Lady Isabella appears chastened.”

With what felt like some reluctance, the guard’s gloved fists unclenched. He shuffled back towards his post at the doorway as Isabella brought a newly-liberated arm up over her breasts in an attempt to cover herself, while her other hand sank demurely down in front of her prim triangle of black hair.

For a moment, the three women and their male escort stared silently at the naked queen, as if none were quite sure what came next. Isabella, for her part, kept her eyes fixed on the tiled floor, trying not to let her captors see her discomfited, even as rage and humiliation drove warm blood to her face.

Finally, at a nod from the old nun, both Sister Genevieve and Sister Ruth began to hitch the hems of their habits up above their knees. Sister Ruth then marched towards Queen Isabella and grabbed her roughly by the elbow, tearing the Queen’s protective arm from her chest and spinning her around towards the shallow tub. The jerking motion caused the Queen to lose her footing and she tumbled over the lip of the tub and hit the water with an undignified splash.

The Queen was briefly submerged. The bath was not nearly as warm as it looked, and the shock of the sudden impact caused Isabella to flail until she found her footing and was able to raise herself, water dripping off her luxurious black hair like a soaked sponge, cascading in streams and waterfalls down her shoulders and over her naked breasts. Once she had wobbled uncertainly to her feet, the water came up only to mid-thigh, leaving the rest of her glistening body exposed to the air.

Sounds of laughter filled the bath chamber. The Queen angrily brushed a damp mop of hair from her face and wiped water from her eyes. She turned towards Sister Ruth in fury, but the fat nun was already wading into the tub, barreling towards her. Behind Sister Ruth was Sister Genevieve, carrying a bucket. She was giggling unabashedly at her former mistress’s pratfall.

The Queen gave token resistance when Sister Ruth reached for her, her slick skin easily slipping from the nun’s grip, but a harsh reprimand from Sister Agnes—”Lady Isabella, be still!”—caused her to hesitate. The next thing she knew, a bucket of water had been emptied over her head, accompanied by a stifled snort of merriment from Sister Genevieve. Isabella was once again blind and disoriented as the sudden torrent of water rushed over her face, leaving her sputtering and gasping.

“Lift your arms, witch,” Sister Ruth growled.

Too stunned to do otherwise, the Black Queen complied. After wiping the water from her face once again, she hesitantly raised her arms out to her sides, stealing a glance as she did so at the White guardsman, who leaned against his halberd, drinking in every moment of this performance. Meanwhile, Sister Genevieve had produced a thick slab of soap and was busily lathering a large, coarse-bristled brush of the sort that the Queen associated more with the scullery than the bathhouse.

Sister Genevieve handed the brush off to her sister, who roughly yanked the Queen’s left arm even higher and began to scrub beneath her armpit. Isabella bit her lip, willing herself to remain still while the nun manhandled her like a farm animal.

At the same time as Sister Ruth was scouring under the Queen’s arms, Sister Genevieve began applying her chunk of soap directly to the Queen’s skin. She began by swiping from shoulder to shoulder, leaving a frothy, filmy trail across the Queen’s collarbone. Then, the young nun dragged the soap down across the Queen’s naked breasts. The waxy block circled one teat and then the other, tracing the circumference of the perky white mounds from their apex down into the delicate cleft where they rested against her torso.

“Keep those arms up, Whore of Aardmore,” the fat nun hissed in her ear. “Or we’ll never get that stink off you.”

Once a layer of foam had coated the Queen’s bosom, the young nun set the soap aside and engaged the nude sovereign’s glistening orbs with her hands. Rubbing her palms over the spongy flesh in tight circles, Sister Genevieve quickly worked up a lather. Seemingly fascinated with the older woman’s magnificent endowment, the young nun’s hands lingered, squeezing and lifting the Queen’s soapy breasts in an exploratory fashion, shyly at first and then with ever greater boldness.

The Queen, however, barely had time to register this lewd molestation. As Sister Ruth moved onto the monarch’s other armpit, the brush’s sharp bristles bit into a tender new swath of skin, drawing the Queen’s attention away from the degrading activity at her chest.

“Unnnh! Softer, you pig-faced cunt!” the Queen grunted before she could stop herself.

Sister Genevieve, whose fingers had found their way to the Queen’s nipples, suddenly paused, her thumbs resting just below the puckered nubs.

“Ooooooo . . .” the young nun gasped in scandalized excitement.

Outside the pool, Sister Agnes clacked her tongue.

“It seems it is the Black Lady’s mouth that is in need of the most urgent cleansing,” the old nun said. “Sister Genevieve?”

“Yes, Sister,” the young nun answered with suppressed eagerness. She gave Isabella’s nipples a swift pinch before turning around and grabbing the soap block.

As she did so, Sister Ruth took hold of the Queen’s wrists and pulled them behind her back. Sister Genevieve then turned around shoved the soap in the Queen’s face, rubbing it all around her clenched lips. Isabella squirmed and tried to twist her face away from the foul-tasting soap.

“Open up, My Lady,” the young nun said.

“Lady Isabella . . .” Sister Agnes added in a tone of warning.

Foolishly, the Queen tried to protest. No sooner had the outrage parted her lips than Sister Genevieve managed to press the soap inside her mouth. Jiggling the slippery brick this way and that, the girl was able to wedge it past the Queen’s teeth. Isabella squealed in muffled fury. She tried to jerk away, but Sister Ruth held fast to her wrists. She kicked impotently at the water.

“The sooner we clean out that nasty mouth, My Lady, the sooner you can appear before the Bishop and be forgiven your sins.”

Whether it was the persistent prying of the soap against her teeth or whether it was her own subconscious, willing this ordeal towards a swifter conclusion, the Queen found her jaw giving way. With relish, the young nun jammed the soap deeper. The bitter taste of pig’s fat and lye flooded the Queen’s mouth. She gagged.

Ignoring the moist choking sounds burbling from her naked prisoner, Sister Genevieve gleefully wiggled the soap around the captive queen’s helpless mouth, coating the inside of her cheeks before ramming the fat, slippery brick in and out of the Queen’s thoroughly-lubricated orifice. Foam began to spill out the sides, oozing down her chin and dripping off her face in thick frothy gobs.

“That’s enough, Sister Genevieve,” Sister Agnes instructed. “Lady Isabella, we will leave that soap in place for the time being lest you undo your cleanliness with the pollution of your tongue. You may hold onto it by your own power or we will have Brother Duncan hold it in for you.”

Sister Genevieve looked up at Isabella with curiosity and very slowly removed her hand from the block of soap, watching expectantly to see if the humiliated queen would spit it out. Isabella felt the penetrating bitterness of the soap sting the back of her throat, and she wanted desperately to purge the frothy residue from her mouth. But what would happen if she continued to fight?

As a girl, she had witnessed an emotional conversation between her mother and grandfather. It was shortly after court machinations had forced the former Queen to flee the capital for Aardmore Castle.

“What can I do?” the young princess overheard her mother ask tearfully.

“You can endure,” Duke Aardmore had replied. “Sufferance is a tactic. Those who can endure remain poised to exploit whatever openings their enemies inevitably provide.”

Gain audience with the bishop. Negotiate her release. Return to her supporters. Wait for an opening. That was the way forward. A tactical withdrawal. Whatever else happened along that path was irrelevant. Something to be endured. She bit down into the soap.

For an instant, her eyes met Sister Geneveive’s. The hint of a smirk tugged at her former handmaid’s mouth, and the Black Queen was forced to look away, lifting her chin and gazing blankly into the middle-distance. She hoped the expression might pass for dignified, until a suppressed gag reflex caused her torso to shudder and a sudsy whimper to burble involuntarily from her soap-stuffed face.

“Have you learned by now your dark powers are useless in this stronghold of God?” Sister Ruth grunted at her triumphantly as she released the Queen’s wrists. “Now put your hands on your head and keep them there. The bishop’s waiting.”

The Queen did as she was told.

The nun’s brush scoured her back, and Isabella winced in pain, biting down harder on the soap. Meanwhile, the captive monarch saw Sister Genevieve’s hands approaching her face, and she flinched instinctively. But the young initiate merely rubbed her palms across the waxy slab that protruded comically from the Queen’s mouth, working up a lather that she then conveyed downward to the unbathed portions of her prisoner’s skin.

Together, the two women worked the Queen’s body. The waifish young nun circled, running her soapy hands in eager arcs across her humbled mistress’s flesh, while her gruff colleague followed, scraping the tender skin pink and raw. Isabella closed her eyes and pressed her intertwined hands helplessly to the back of her head, sucking in breath through her nose and emitting little muffled moans, as the nuns’ ministrations weaved lower and lower.

When Sister Geneveive got to the thick patch of black hair that framed the Queen’s loins, she paused to recoat her hands in soap. Then, she plunged her fingers deep into the damp mop and began to work up a lather, massaging the sovereign’s pubis with intrusive thoroughness, twisting and tugging at individual clumps of hair as if forgetting that the downy object she was shampooing was attached to a woman of royal blood and not the lining of some soiled garment.

Lady Isabella had barely begun to register this invasion when Sister Ruth gave the back of her thigh a wet slap.

“Spread your legs, witch.”

With a readiness that surprised even herself, Isabella immediately adjusted her stance, shuffling her feet apart beneath the water.

“Wider,” demanded the corpulent nun, slapping her hand demonstratively between the insides of her naked charge’s thighs.

With a forlorn, soap-muffled moan and a powerless shake of her head, the Queen again suppressed her indignation and tried to heed the command of the White Bishop’s loathsome minions. Taking another deep nasal breath, she arched her back to keep her balance, her splayed elbows straining further aloft and her naked bosom rising to full attention, as she sank into an even wider stance. Her soapy crotch grazed the surface of the water with a gentle “plop.”

As Isabella obediently exposed herself, Sister Genevieve’s fingers quickly annexed new territory. Bent forward, her head even with the Queen’s abdomen, the young nun slid a cupped hand down from the Queen’s well-lathered bush in a tight curve all the way around the apex of her spread thighs.

Back and forth, she glided her slick palm between the nude monarch’s legs, covering the surface of Isabella’s obligingly open crotch with foam. To her dismay, the Black Queen heard another involuntary moan, this time less unambiguously one of pain, slip past the waxy block jammed crudely between her teeth.

Suddenly, Sister Genevieve’s caress slowed and then lingered. Her hand cupped Lady Isabella’s crotch firmly, lifting with such persistence that the queen was forced up onto the tips of her toes. A single thoroughly-lubricated digit began digging upwards, exploring between the inner folds of the Black Queen’s womanhood with accelerating aggressiveness. Isabella’s eyes grew wide in alarm just as the girl plunged a finger deep inside her former mistress’s vagina.

“Muuuhh-mmpphhth-th…” the Queen sputtered through the soap.

In no time, Sister Genevieve had managed to insert a second soapy finger and then a third inside the Black Queen’s increasingly slick hole. Whether it was stoic determination or simply stunned paralysis, the Queen remained in place—hands on her head, back arched, legs spread, jaw clamped firmly around a bar of soap—even as she was forcibly penetrated by this girl whom she remembered as the lowliest member of her entourage.

But clearly this purification charade had crossed an unendurable line, and Isabella turned her head towards Sister Agnes, lifting her eyebrows towards the senior nun in a half-pleading, half-accusatory grimace.

“Mmmmphfff-uuuuuh-muuuh…”

Whether Sister Agnes regarded the penitent’s animalistic burbling as plaintive or merely an angry outburst, the grim-faced woman did not break her stern pose, looking down upon the ritual cleansing with crossed arms and moving only her pursed lips when she spoke.

“All parts of your body must be cleansed, Lady Isabella. And Sister Genevieve is attending to a region that you have befouled most grievously of all, if what we have heard is true. Please continue, Sister. The Lady cannot enter the Abbey’s inner sanctum so long as any residue of her wickedness clings to her. Be thorough.”

Sister Geneveive’s fingers pushed their way deeper inside the Queen and began thrusting in and out of her cunny, causing her to gasp and wobble in her spread-eagled stance. Desperately, she searched Sister Agnes’s face for some acknowledgement that fingering prisoners in a tub was contrary to her order’s vows

“Mmmmuuutth?… Fffuuuh-ffffuuuuh!”

Soapy saliva oozed from the Black Queen’s mouth and dribbled down her chin as she tried to express herself. For the first time, Isabella felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes. Before looking away in humiliation, she caught a glimpse over Sister Agnes’s shoulder of the White guardsman Duncan, leaning forward attentively.

As instructed, the young nun continued to scour the Queen’s cunt with dutiful thoroughness, rubbing around the outside in forceful concentric circles before working her fingers back inside. A billowing foam began to build and creep down Isabella’s open thighs. She could hear her own heavy breathing sounding more and more labored as she struggled to suck in enough air through her nose, her senses increasingly overwhelmed by the intensity of the activity between her legs.

And then it stopped. Sister Genevieve withdrew her hand, shook off some of the froth and nodded up at the Queen with a brisk “hmmmm,” as if satisfied that her former mistress’s private parts were now sufficiently sanitary. Isabella found that her legs were shaking.

“Disgusting,” Sister Ruth growled behind her ear. “The Black Witch draws sinful pleasure from our touch.”

“That may be so, Sister,” intoned Sister Agnes, “but there are limits to what our purification ritual can achieve. We must leave it to the bishop to cleanse her soul.”

Suddenly, with a sharp splash, Sister Genevieve flung a bucketful of water against Isabella’s crotch, rinsing some of soap away while causing the Queen to stumble backwards with a muffled “oof.” At the same time, Sister Ruth grabbed her shoulder and gave it a swift shove.

“Bend over, witch. Grab your knees.”

Isabella hesitated, momentarily unable to fathom voluntarily adopting such a humiliating, submissive position in front of these three horrible women. Then, seeing no way out, she slowly unlaced her fingers from behind her head and reached falteringly towards her submerged knees, all the while telling herself the ordeal would be over soon.

The Black Queen’s plump tits skimmed buoyantly against the surface of the water as she bent forward. The tub was filmy with soap residue and shimmered in the glow of the bathchamber’s candlelight. Her face came to rest mere inches above the water, and she imagined with horror that she could make out her reflection: naked and bowed in supplication before a gang of common churchwomen, a greasy block of soap stuffed degradingly in her mouth like an apple in a roasted pig.

Worse, she knew what was coming, and indeed no sooner had she assumed her demeaning pose than she felt Sister Ruth’s brush make contact with her defenseless bottom. Roughly spreading the Queen’s cheeks apart with one hand, the fat nun scrubbed up and down and inside the tender valley of Isabella’s buttocks. Despite the bulkiness of the cleaning implement, she managed to wedge the brush deep into the cleft between the captive monarch’s spread cheeks, her thrusts finding their way into its furthest recesses.

“Muuuuuh…fuuuuuhmph…fuuuuhph” the Queen grunted while behind her rigid bristles scoured her asshole.

Finally, Sister Ruth withdrew the brush. Queen Isabella maintained her position, waiting for her next degradation as soap suds bubbled gradually out from her backside and dribbled down her thighs. Hands gripping her knees, she lifted her face apprehensively to find Sister Genevieve looking down at her with an insufferable smirk.

“Very good, My Lady. You’re looking so fresh and clean. Here. I’ll take that nasty soap. I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson about proper language.”

The young initiate reached down and jostled the Queen’s makeshift gag. Isabella stretched her lips as wide as she could to allow the soap to slide free. Her jaw ached. A thick white film ringed her mouth like a fake beard. She choked and sputtered trying to rid her mouth of the bitter residue.

As she leaned over, coughing and spitting, a fat hand gripped the back of her head and shoved her under the water. Unprepared, Isabella flailed in panic. Twisting her body, she managed push her face above the surface just long enough to suck in a quick breath before being forced back down by both nuns. Fully submerged and too disoriented to mount an effective resistance, the Queen splashed impotently while two sets of hands fondled her body up and down in a final forcible rinse.

Then they grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet. The Queen gasped for air. Her hair was plastered around her face like a wet mask, blinding her. Supporting her weight, they led her dripping out of the pool onto the tiled bathhouse floor.

“This way, Sisters,” she heard Sister Agnes say, “Help Lady Isabella up onto the bench. This one here”

Isabella tried feebly to shake some of the water and hair from her eyes, stumbling along guided by the women gripping her arms. After a few halting steps backwards, her hip struck the edge of one of the low wooden tables that ringed the central bath. The nuns forced her up onto the hard flat surface and swung her long slender legs off the floor. Positioning themselves on either side of the table, they pulled her down onto her back so that her nude body was draped across its surface like a ritual sacrifice upon an altar.

Through a break in the damp curtain of her disheveled hair, Isabella watched Sister Agnes approach. A small blade glinted in her hand, and, for a terrifying moment, Isabella feared that they really did mean to sacrifice her, cut her open and harvest her blood in fanatical tribute to their God.

But, recognizing the flat edge of a barber’s razor, the Queen’s panic ebbed. Sister Agnes placed the razor on the bench beside Isabella’s naked body. Next to the blade, she placed a small wooden bowl filled with a sweet-smelling balm. Then the old nun left for a moment, returning with a silver bowl filled with water.

Isabella watched with something approaching curiosity as the stern woman began to mix the sticky cream with a small brush. Then, with pursed-lipped efficiency, she began to spread the mixture over Isabella’s legs. The Queen flinched at the first cool touch but forced herself to remain still. Clearly, some tenet of this absurd ritual required her legs to be cleanly shaven.

Though some still regarded the practice as a mark of wantoness, shorn legs had long been in fashion amongst the younger noblewomen at court, and, in truth, Isabella had last shaved shortly before riding out for Malburgh. But if these zealous harpies wished to give her legs a fresh grooming, they were welcome to it, so long as they hurried up about it and took care not to nick her skin.

The cream tingled. Isabella made a conscious effort to slow her breathing while the humorless old nun took the razor and scraped off swath after swath of the sticky salve from the captive monarch’s legs, leaving only smooth white flesh. When she was done, Sister Agnes took a damp cloth and wiped off the remaining residue.

Thinking her humiliating “purification” might finally be nearing completion, Isabella made a tentative attempt to rise, but Ruth and Geneveive pulled her roughly back down onto the wood tabletop. Sister Agnes ran her brush around the bowl of ointment and then began spreading the cream under Isabella’s arms. The sensation tickled, and the pinioned noblewoman gasped and writhed involuntarily. In her impassive, businesslike manner, the old nun then scraped the Queen’s armpits clean before returning to her balm.

This time, the nun’s brush dove between Isabella’s legs. The Queen let out an undignified squeak of surprise and her torso jerked upwards as, without warning, Sister Agnes slapped a moist dollop of cream down on top of her naked crotch and began to slather the Queen’s pubic area with the frothy mixture. Scooping another glob of cream onto her prisoner’s exposed genitals, the nun swabbed the region around Isabella’s royal loins with what seemed like greater thoroughness than she had devoted to her legs and armpits.

Having meticulously saturated the Queen’s pubic hair with the white ointment, Sister Agnes spread Isabella’s thighs apart with a brusque yank and directed her brush strokes downward, leaning forward in the candlelight like a painter refining small details on her masterwork. The bristles tickled unbearably as they were dragged slowly and methodically up and down the tender lips of Isabella’s womanhood. The Black Queen squirmed.

Finally, Sister Agnes grabbed Isabella’s ankles and lifted her legs into the air like an infant having its soiled nappy removed. Holding her captive’s ankles aloft with one arm, the nun continued to spread the ointment, coating the remainder of the Queen’s lewdly exhibited vaginal region before sweeping lower with her brush down across Isabella’s taint and finally between the cheeks of her buttocks.

Briefly, the Queen caught the eyes of the two women who loomed over her, pinning her down. Both were wearing smiles of repressed mirth. Their gaze flitted back and forth between their prisoner’s shamed face and the long supple legs which their colleague held aloft as she continued her degrading ministrations. Lifting her head slightly, the Queen could just barely see, beyond the slope of her mountainous breasts and past the quavering wall of her hoisted thighs, the bathhouse entryway and, beside it, the Bishop’s guardsman, standing with the perfect view of the monarch’s upraised hindquarters. She let her head to fall back against the tabletop and squeezed shut her eyes, willing herself to endure the humiliation.

She felt the brush strokes swabbing her bottom slow and then cease. Sister Agnes released her ankles, allowing her legs to drop. Before her limbs even came to rest, she felt the sharp edge of nun’s razor against her pelvis. With continued precision, the old woman scraped the blade across the moistened tangle of the Queen’s pubic hair, ripping it free silky black clumps that she flicked deftly to the side before rinsing her instrument and returning for another pass.

Isabella gritted her teeth, ignoring the occasional flashes of pain. Having this hostile stranger wave this perilously sharp implement around such sensitive parts of her body, it was nothing short of terrifying, but she could do little but trust blindly that these women did not intend to maim her. She held her body as motionless as she could manage, trying to give the old nun no excuse to draw blood.

Isabella held her breath in alarm. Miraculously, her lead captor displayed remarkable dexterity with the razor, and none of her cuts broke skin, even as her attentions moved lower, carefully scraping stray hairs from around the lips of the Queen’s royal cunny. Finally, Sister Agnes once again lifted the Queen’s legs, curling her body back into the degrading, infantilizing posture that made Isabella feel so exposed.

Manhandling the monarch’s lower half like an unwieldy piece of furniture, the old woman reached all the way around Isabella’s suspended thighs and leaned in close in order to put the finishing touches on her shorn genitals before spreading the Queen’s bottom and scraping clean whatever sparse wisps of hair ringed her asshole. Then, after wiping her down with a damp rag, Sister Agnes ran a finger along the crack Isabella’s bottom, up through the crevice between her legs and down around to the flat expanse of her pelvis, gauging the smoothness. Satisfied, she set down her tools.

“Your purification is complete, Lady Isabella. You may rise.”

The two other nuns released her arms. Her face burning at the indignity to which she’d just been subjected, Queen Isabella slowly sat up, swinging her legs out to dangle from the table. She stole a brief glance downward and was confronted with the unfamiliar cleft of her womanhood, bare as the day she’d entered this cruel world.

The White guardsman approached, and Isabella instinctively placed a hand over her lap while drawing her other arm across her naked breasts, a ridiculous attempt at modesty after everything this man had witnessed. Suddenly, he tossed something at her.

A bundle of fabric struck her squarely in the face before tumbling down into her demurely shielded lap. She looked down. Another penitent’s vestment.

“Come, My Lady,” said Sister Genevieve, “We must hurry up and get you dressed. His Excellency the Bishop awaits.”

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Queen Captured – Act I: Pawn

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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.

Whizzzz. CRACK!

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…”

Whizzzzz. CRACK!

Another shriek. Nollie giggled and clapped.

Whizzzzz. CRACK!

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.

Whizzzzz. CRACK!

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.

“Ohhhh-ho…”

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.”

 

The Initiation: Chapter 17 – The Party

Seventeenth Chapter of W.H. Collins’s dark erotic novel “The Initiation.”. All nineteen chapters are available from Amazon and All Romance

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 violence and sexual exploitation.

The knock had made everyone jump, but Jessica most of all. Panic had chased away the post-orgasm haziness hanging around Jessica’s brain. What would someone think to come upon her like this? Bent over a chair, naked from the waist down, exposing her dripping, spread pussy to a room full of men, while another woman stood behind her in her panties, holding a glistening purple dildo.

Fortunately, rather than instructing her to remain in position, Nick had told Matt to take her upstairs.

“The guests are already here, Jess!” he’d mock-chided her, “you can’t just lie there waiting for people to play with your pussy. You gotta get ready for the party.”

So Matt had led her quickly upstairs, leaving her pants and panties sitting on the living room floor, while Staz and Nick prepared to greet whoever was at the door.

The cabin’s second level consisted of a hallway leading to two bedrooms, one bathroom and some sort of large TV room filled with couches. Jessica followed Matt into one of the bedrooms. Matt shut the door behind them and slumped against it, appearing slightly overwhelmed.

Jessica backed away to the far side of the room, demurely tugging the front of her blouse down to hide her naked crotch. However, as embarrassed and anxious as she was to be alone in a room with this boy, wearing nothing below the waist, she was grateful to have escaped the nightmare scenario downstairs.

And Matt, at least, seemed the least threatening of her captors, had even seemed to show some discomfort as their sexual exploitation of this beautiful sorority pledge had grown gradually more serious. Jessica glanced up at his pimply face and sleepy-stoned eyes, hoping for a sign of sympathy.

“Where is this? W-who are these people?” she asked, her eyes watery and pleading.

Matt gave a nervous shrug. Then, after seeming to listen for any sign of someone coming down the hallway, he took a few steps in Jessica’s direction.

“I don’t know . . .” he said under his breath. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m supposed to–. . . Look, Nick knows a lot of . . . people. Some of these guys, you don’t want to mess with. Well-connected, you know? Mafia-type shit . . .”

Jessica clutched the bottom of her blouse tighter. Her lower lip was quivering.

“What’s- What’s going to happen?” she asked in an almost inaudible squeak.

Matt gave another anxious shrug.

“Nick wouldn’t want me . . . I can’t. I’m sorry. Listen, you should just do what they say. Tomorrow we can just go back . . . No one ever has to know . . . about any of this.”

“Please. I want to leave. I want to go home. Help me.”

Matt shook his head and took a seat on the bed.

“I can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

***

The minutes ticked by slowly while Jessica waited in awkward silence in the bedroom with Matt. After that first attempt, Jessica despaired of trying to enlist his help. Someone with greater guile or powers of manipulation might have tried harder to play on the boy’s conscience or perhaps attempted to formulate some other plan of escape. Jessica, however, hampered by her naivety and introversion, could think of nothing to do but sink further into her corner.

Eventually, Jessica grew tired of standing and sat down self-consciously on the bed, as far away from Matt as she could manage, squeezing her legs tightly together and folding her hands in her lap to cover her nakedness. Matt made no attempt to touch her, but Jessica could feel him glancing over and running his eyes up her nude legs.

The sounds from downstairs were getting louder. The music had been turned up, and raucous voices could be heard echoing up the stairs and through the closed bedroom door. Finally, Matt’s phone buzzed and he glanced down at the message on the screen.

“Stay right here,” he told Jessica before leaving the room.

A few moments later, Matt reappeared, carrying some folded clothes and a few other items.

“I’m, uh, I’m supposed to help you get ready. Here. Nick wants you to put these on.”

Matt set down on the bed a T-shirt and a pleated tennis skirt. The skirt was yellow and the shirt pink—the Theta Theta Psi colors—and the shirt was boldly emblazoned with the sorority letters. Jessica picked up the skirt. It was scandalously short.

“Where’s my . . . my underwear?” she asked Matt quietly, blushing at having to say it.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s it. Nick said no panties. Sorry.”

Jessica nodded silently, staring at the skirt, taking it in. When she didn’t move, Matt shifted his feet nervously.

“Nick’s gonna be pissed if we take too long. Look, just . . . just put it on, ok?”

Swallowing down the knot in her throat, Jessica rose from the bed. As quickly as she could manage, she pulled the skirt on. As she had feared, it barely concealed her naked crotch. Bending over even slightly would almost certainly bring her bottom into view. But there was no point in thinking about that now. She picked up the T-shirt and unfolded it. She glanced up at Matt, who was making no attempt to look away while she undressed.

Taking a deep breath, Jessica turned away trying to preserve her modesty, before unbuttoning her blouse and tossing it onto the bed. She was just about to pull the pink T on when Matt stopped her.

“No bra. Sorry.”

She paused, then reached behind her and unhooked the red Wal-Mart bra, sliding it off her shoulders, causing her stunning, round breasts to bounce free. She pulled the T-shirt on. It was tight. She had to strain the material to get it past her ample chest, and, as she pulled it down, it clung snugly around the underside of her boobs and down her flat stomach. It was an inch or so short for her, causing a strip of midriff to be visible above the waistband of her skirt.

“These too,”

Matt handed her a pair of yellow stockings and some bright pink high heels. Jessica sat down on the bed and pulled on the stockings, trying her best not to flaunt her naked crotch in front of Matt in the process. The stockings stopped at mid-thigh, leaving plenty of bare skin between them and the hem of the skimpy skirt. She then slipped on the shoes and teetered uncertainly to her feet.

She looked down at herself and then to the mirror hanging over the dresser. She looked like the quintessential sorority slut. It was the sort of absurd outfit that might pass for a sexy Halloween costume. The only thing out of place was the red dog collar around her neck, which gave the sexy-sorority-girl ensemble an odd S&M flair.

“And he wants you to redo your makeup and stuff,” said Matt, setting down a hairbrush and makeup kit on the dresser.

Ignoring the lump in her throat, Jessica obeyed. Robotically, she approached the dresser and began to apply the cosmetics that had been laid out for her. Eye liner. Blush. Lipstick. The latter was a loud shade of red, bound to make her look that much more the over-sexualized party girl, but Jessica barely hesitated to smear it around her lips. What did it matter? Compared to the lewd way her braless tits pushed against the pink Theta baby-T, was anyone going to pay much attention to the shade of her makeup?

Jessica was brushing out her hair, trying to look past the tarted-up visage staring back at her from the mirror, when the bedroom door swung open. It was Nick.

“Look at that! Now you look like a real Theta! Welcome to the sisterhood, Jess. Your mom would be so proud . . .”

A sob escaped from Jessica’s throat at the mention of her mother.

“Hey hey, keep a good attitude up, Jess. Party’s getting into full swing downstairs, and, as part of your initiation, I want you to play hostess. Remember: Officium Obsequium Obtemperatio Right? So come on down, we’ll get you set up taking drink orders, just like you were doing earlier. We’ll even show you how to use the martini shaker this time.”

Nick took a step closer to inspect Jessica’s outfit, circling around her. Jessica simply froze, arms at her sides, shoulders heaving with her anxious breathing. Nick gently hooked a forefinger under the hem of the pleated skirt, brushing it up ever so slightly, just enough to get a peek at the girl’s naked bottom.

Circling around to face her again, he flicked his finger across the place between her breasts where the cotton was stretched out into taut ripples, distorting the Greek letters on the shirt’s face. Casually, he cupped one of her boobs, causing her to shiver.

“Yeah, this will work. One final touch, though . . .”

Nick took something out of his pocket. Jessica glanced down and cringed. It was the nipple clamps.

“Hold still, Jess,” said Nick.

Groping her tit firmly with one hand in order to position it, Nick opened the jaws of the clamp with his other hand and placed it over the spot where Jessica’s nipple protruded visibly through the thin cotton fabric. Making sure he had the knob fully between the device’s jaws, Nick let them slowly compress.

Jessica gasped. With the T-shirt to absorb some of the pressure, the agony was not as severe as when Nick had bitten down on her naked nipples during the car ride. But it was still painful.

Nick stretched the chain across to her other boob. Once again manhandling her breast in order to get the positioning of the clamp right, he squeezed her other nipple firmly between the mechanical teeth.

Nick gave the chain dangling between Jessica’s tits a light tug and then nodded in satisfaction. He then pulled the dog leash out from his pocket and attached it to her collar, completing her degradation.

With a tug, he led her toward the door.

***

“Shake that ass! Come on, bitch, shake that ass!”

The music blared to keep above the din of the voices. Jessica descended the stairs in growing trepidation. How many people were down there? Led along by the leash draped over Nick’s shoulder, she emerged into the cabin’s den and stopped short. It was even more crowded than she’d imagined. There were perhaps a dozen people carousing in the den, and she could tell that there were even more guests milling around the kitchen area around the corner.

It appeared to be a mixed group. There were several clusters of what looked like they could be guests at a frat party, young men and women dressed like college students. But here and there were older men, some wearing expensive-looking suits.

For their part, many of the party-goers stopped in mid-conversation when Jessica appeared at the bottom of the stairs, turning to look in surprise or amusement at the beautiful young blonde wearing yellow stockings and nipple clamps being dragged along on a dog leash into their midst. Jessica brushed a hand self-consciously by the hem of her skirt, assuring herself that it wasn’t riding up too flagrantly.

Nick led her through the den towards the kitchen. As they passed within audible distance of the groups, Nick would stop and introduce Jessica.

 

“Hey guys, this is Jessica. As you can see, she’s the newest member of Theta Theta Psi. They’re an extremely service-oriented organization, so if you need anything, another drink or whatever, just tell Jess here and she’ll fetch it for you. It’s all part of her initiation. Isn’t that right?”

Jessica’s mouth was dry, but she nodded reluctantly when Nick gave the leash a light tug.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Jessica tried to avoid eye contact with anyone, but she ventured a quick glance up at one group as Nick was explaining that Jessica was at their service. They looked college-age, four boys and two girls, and they crowded around both to hear what Nick was saying and get a closer look at Jessica. Jessica made brief eye contact with one of the girls, who had a disdainful smirk on her face.

Jessica recognized her. She was an upperclassman at the University. She worked in the registrar’s office. Jessica’s mouth hung open.

When they moved on, Jessica scampered after Nick as quickly as her heels would allow so she could whisper to him.

“I-I know her! There’s people here from school!” she blurted out in fear.

Nick stopped and grabbed the leash at its base by her collar, pulling her close.

“You better chill the fuck out, Jess,” he said under his breath, “unless you want to give your classmates something to really gossip about. Look, this isn’t the first time we’ve hosted a party at Staz’s cabin. People know not to run their mouth off about stuff that goes on. What happens here stays here. We’re very clear about that, and we don’t invite people we can’t trust.

“Same deal still applies, alright? You cooperate, we keep this whole weekend quiet. Make trouble, we’re gonna make you a celebrity, you understand?”

Nick gave the chain attached to her nipples a sharp tug.

“You understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Jessica answered.

Nick led her into the kitchen, where there were a dozen more people. Kentucky Vlad leaned against the refrigerator holding a glass pipe. He raised his eyebrows and smiled as Jessica walked past. Nick gave his spiel about Jessica’s initiation to the room at large before unhooking the leash from her collar. Staz emerged from the living room and clapped his hands together on seeing Jessica.

“Oh my goodness, I had missed those legs! Vlad! Pull a few bottles out of the fridge. Now the evening truly begins!”

The Initiation: Chapter 16 – The Cabin

Sixteenth Chapter of W.H. Collins’s dark erotic novel “The Initiation.”. All nineteen chapters are available from Amazon and All Romance

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 violence and sexual exploitation.

The road after the turnoff was full of curves. Jessica, still topless, had a difficult time maintaining her balance as she hugged her naked breasts between crossed forearms. Every sharp turn threatened to spill her into either Nick or Shannon’s lap.

The trees grew thicker and the pavement less well maintained. Jessica’s feelings of trepidation mounted. What would they do to her once they got to whatever isolated spot in the woods they were taking her to? With no one around to call to for help, with nowhere to run away, what would they force her to do?

“How are those nipples feeling, Jess? Still sore?” Nick asked as the Volvo rounded another switchback, causing Jessica’s nude torso to press into him.

Jessica said nothing as she attempted to reposition herself.

“Remember how you need to answer me when I ask a question, Jess. I hope you’re not backsliding on the lessons you’ve learned. Otherwise tonight’s gonna go a lot rougher for you than it needs to.”

Jessica gulped. She should have known better than to treat Nick’s degrading questions as rhetorical.

“I’ll try again. How do your nipples feel, Jessica?” Nick insisted.

In truth, Jessica could still feel the bite of the nipple clamps on her tender pink nipples. But she shrugged and answered in as few words as she thought she could get away with.

“Ok, sir,” she muttered.

“We’re getting pretty close to the cabin. You want your top back?”

Jessica nodded. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

She looked up, but Nick just raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“May I put—please put my top back on, sir?” she found herself asking.

Nick reached into the paper bag at his feet and handed Jessica the crumpled up white blouse. He reached in again and grabbed the lacey red bra, holding it up questioningly. Jessica winced, but realized she would have to ask for her bra back specifically.

“Can I have my . . . my b-bra, sir?” she choked out.

Smirking, Nick handed her the bra, and Jessica hurriedly reclothed herself, trying to ignore Dylan’s hungry gaze, following her every movement from the front seat.

***

The cabin was nice, not at all the dilapidated rape shack that Jessica’s mind had conjured during the slow journey up the dirt road that led to it. It was an elegant, two-story building with large glass windows and a wide, well-maintained porch that wrapped around the corner.

On a patch of grass a few yards from the porch, there was a black sedan parked ominously. Obviously, the cabin was occupied. This was confirmed as soon as the Volvo’s engines shut off, and Jessica became aware of a low thumping reverberating from the direction of the cabin, the sound of an echoing bass line from an unheard hip hop track.

“Here we are,” Nick said.

He leaned over and reattached the leash to Jessica’s collar before swinging open the car door and leading her out into the picturesque little clearing among the trees where the cabin sat. Jessica looked around her. The trees’ leaves were just beginning to turn orange and yellow, and there was a stream burbling somewhere nearby. But the scene’s natural beauty only emphasized to Jessica her predicament, how isolated she was. Stuck here in the middle of the woods, she felt like the heroine in a horror movie.

Caught up in her surroundings, Jessica wasn’t paying attention when Nick slung the leash over his shoulder and started heading for the cabin. She nearly toppled over as the leash went taut and her collar yanked suddenly at her neck, causing a surprised “gerrrkh!” to squeeze out from her throat. But with a stumbling 180-degree twirl, arms akimbo to maintain her balance, she managed to right herself and stagger after her master towards the cabin.

The beat of the bass grew louder as they approached, and, by the time they were heading up the porch steps, Jessica could make out the song’s higher channels, including the rapper’s emphatic and angry flow. “Shake that ass. Come on, bitch, shake that ass” was all Jessica could make out.

Nick did not bother knocking, pulling open the cabin’s screen door and pushing in its wooden one before leading Jessica by her leash inside.

The cabin’s interior seemed expensively furnished, with leather couches and glass tables. A living room covered by a thick, furry beige rug gave way to a kitchen area with a large countertop island, upon which were arranged an array of liquor bottles. A haze of smoke hung around the kitchen, and there were three men standing around the island, all of whom turned to look as Nick and Jessica entered, followed by Shannon and finally Matt and Dylan dragging the luggage.

Their eyes, of course, rested on Jessica. However, if they were taken aback to see her being led around on a dog leash, they did not appear to show it. One of them, an square-jawed man probably in his early thirties with a carefully trimmed goatee and wearing a suit jacket and gold chain over a tight grey T-shirt and jeans, handed what looked like a cigar to his companion, a large and muscular but baby-faced man, and approached Nick.

“Niiikolai . . . You are earlier than we expected, my man.”

The man had the faintest trace of an accent. He strode up to them and embraced Nick before releasing him in order to give Jessica a thorough look up and down her body.

“Oh my goodness. This is the one, is it? She is stunning . . . Those tits, they’re real?”

“That’s what she says,” replied Nick. “Feel natural enough to me, too. And we’ve all had plenty of chances to test them out this weekend. Isn’t that right, Jess?”

“Yes, sir,” Jessica murmured, folding her arms in front of her.

The man raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

“And so respectful! Weeeeell, my darling, you certainly will be the . . . belle of the ball tonight?”

“What time are people gonna start arriving?” asked Nick.

“Not for another hour maybe. We have plenty of time to catch up, Kolya, and to get to know your . . . friends. Come in come in and have a drink. We are fully stocked.”

They followed him towards the kitchen where introductions were made, at least between the men and the frat boys. No one addressed Jessica, who stood towards the side of the room like a non-person. She did learn that Nick’s acquaintance went by Staz, that the big man smoking the cigar (which, Jessica detected from the odor, must be stuffed with marijuana) was known as Skinny Pasha and that the man leaning against the stovetop in the dark hoody with Asian features and an elaborate tattoo running up his neck, was named Kentucky Vlad.

Staz had begun pouring drinks when Nick stopped him.

“Let Jessica here handle all that, man,” he said, “it’ll be good for her training. Right, Jess?”

“Yes, sir,” Jessica muttered reflexively.

Staz seemed to like the idea and led the group back to the couches in the living room, leaving Jessica with seven drink orders and some basic directions on where to find the glasses and ice. Nick unhooked the leash from Jessica’s collar and gave her cheek a little pat.

“Hope you got all that, Jess. If the service is bad, I’m gonna have to punish you in front of these guys. Understand?”

Jessica flinched. When Nick turned to join the others, she hurriedly began fixing drinks. Fortunately, the requests weren’t complicated. Nick and the three men from the cabin had all ordered vodka (neat for Kentucky Vlad, rocks for everyone else), beers for Matt and Dylan, and Shannon had demanded a “dirty” vodka martini, presumably simply to make Jessica’s job more complicated.

When Jessica entered the living room with the first set of vodkas, everyone was seated around the leather couches. Staz had out a switchblade which he was busily scraping against the cover of a hardback book, arranging some small piles of white powder into delicate little lines. Jessica had never seen cocaine in real life, but she recognized the ritual from movies.

She couldn’t hear the group’s conversation over the hip hop blaring from the stereo until she got closer. When she did, she heard Nick finishing telling Staz something like “ . . . think we can start the bidding at 500 . . .” before cutting himself off at Jessica’s approach.

Jessica tried to hand Nick one of the vodkas, but Nick directed her towards Staz and Skinny Pasha.

“No no no. Serve my boy Staz here first.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jessica, nodding nervously.

As she was setting the drinks down, Staz passed the book with the cocaine over to Shannon who snorted up a line. As Jessica turned to hurry back to the kitchen, Shannon shouted to her.

“Where the fuck’s my martini, skank? You’re gonna be sorry if I don’t have a drink in my hand quick!”

Though Shannon was clearly no longer in charge, Jessica had never stopped being frightened of her, and the ferocity of her demands sent Jessica scuttling back to the bar all the quicker with a panicky “yes, ma’am.” Deciding that she had better serve Shannon next, Jessica pulled a martini glass out of the cabinet and then examined the selection of liquids. A vodka martini must have vodka in it . . . but what else? Luckily, the green bottle of vermouth sitting right next to the vodka was illustrated with a cartoon martini glass, complete with olive.

Praying that what she was doing was correct, Jessica filled the glass with half vodka and half vermouth, grabbed a green olive from a nearby bowl and plopped it in. Holding the drink up and trying desperately not to spill, she scuttled back into the living room to deliver it to Shannon.

Before Jessica could even turn back, though, Shannon took a sip and nearly spit it out.

“What the fuck is this? Nick, try this. Does this taste like a dirty martini to you?”

Nick gamely took a sip and blanched.

“Well, it’s warm for one thing . . .” he said.

“I ought to paddle that ass raw, you stupid slut,” Shannon hissed. “Nick, where’s the paddle. This dumb Rushie bitch needs some punishment.”

To Jessica’s surprise, Nick didn’t immediately seize the opportunity to force her into another spanking. Instead, he leaned back in the couch and regarded Shannon.

“Well, I don’t know that it’s Jessica’s fault she doesn’t know how to make a martini. Tell you what, I got a better idea. What if she makes it up to you? Seems like you two have had a lot of sexual tension this whole trip that could use some relief. What do you say? You want to help Jessica put on a little show for our hosts?”

Shannon seemed undecided, glancing around furtively at the men in the room. Her leg was bouncing furiously. Jessica, meanwhile, was frozen in place by what was being suggested.

“You ever been with another girl, Jess?”

Jessica’s mouth was dry but she knew Nick expected an answer.

“N-no, sir.”

“Really? Never experimented? Fingering your friend in the bunks at camp or anything? Well, it’s no big deal. Shannon’ll show you how. Come on, Shan. You can have a bump afterwards. Right, Staz?”

“Of course, Kolya,” responded Staz, taking a line of cocaine himself, “there is nothing I like more than a little lezzie action.”

Shannon gauged the situation for another moment before jumping to her feet.

“Fine! You ready to let these pervs watch you lick my pussy, Rushie?”

Jessica didn’t know what to say. She had never even considered having sex with another woman. She found the idea disgusting. Before she could object or think of some way to delay, however, Shannon stepped in close to her and grabbed her roughly around the hips, pulling her up against her own body.

Before Jessica knew what was happening, Shannon leaned in and planted her lips on Jessica’s, giving her a long, passionate kiss that startled Jessica so thoroughly that she barely struggled. Staz and several of the other men whooped and applauded.

Shannon released Jessica and gave her a light shove.

“Down on your knees, whore. You’re going to service me just like to serviced those two men in the back of the porn shop.”

Jessica’s legs were trembling. She looked towards Nick, with a perverse hope of rescue.

“Obedience, Jess,” said Nick calmly.

“I said get down on your fucking knees,” repeated Shannon.

Jessica felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Shaking, she lowered herself down to the soft off-white rug. With an ambiguous look towards Nick, Shannon deftly unbuttoned her pants and lowered them to the ground. She kicked them off and then pulled down her black panties, revealing a closely-cropped strip of straight, dark public hair. She threw her panties down next to her pants and then sat back down, naked from the waist down, on the couch next to Nick.

“Let’s go. Crawl the fuck over here and get that whore mouth to work.”

From her spot on the ground, in front of the television and surrounded on all sides by the seated men, Jessica felt very much on stage. She looked discreetly around the room. Most of the men had leaned forward expectantly in their seats. Matt, she noticed, had the video camera out, and Dylan was rummaging in his bag for the SLR.

Blushing furiously but with no escape presenting itself, Jessica rose up on her hands and knees and crawled towards Shannon who, at Jessica’s subservient approach, slouched down in her seat opened up her legs, offering up access to the older girl’s naked snatch.

When her head found itself between Shannon’s knees, Jessica paused, unsure of how to proceed. She looked up at Shannon’s vagina, which lay inches from her face. Despite its proximity, the thought of putting her mouth on it, of sticking her tongue between its folds, seemed inconceivable.

“Well, what’s the hold up?” Shannon demanded, reaching down and grabbing a handful of Jessica’s hair.

“Ahhhh!” Jessica yelped.

Shannon grabbed another handful of blonde hair with her other hand and pulled harder, yanking Jessica’s head back and forth with such violence that it banged against Shannon’s knees.

“Oh! Oh god!” Jessica squealed.

Finally, Shannon jerked Jessica’s head closer to her pussy, causing Jessica’s arms to stumble-crawl closer to the couch.

“Aahhhg—mmmmmph!” Jessica cried as her squeal of pain was muffled by her face colliding with the soft flesh of Shannon’s cunt.

“Let’s go! Lick it bitch. Get me off.”

Hesitantly, her face buried deep between Shannon’s legs, Jessica stuck her tongue out. She felt it make contact with Shannon’s pussy lips. Repressing a convulsion of disgust, she began to move it haltingly around. Shannon gave the back of her head a smack.

“Jesus, you’re fucking useless. Lick it! Move your head! And get your lips into it.”

Slowly, Jessica eased into it. She stuck her tongue out more fully and licked upwards along Shannon’s slit, mixing her saliva with Shannon’s sweat and pussy juices, which Jessica was beginning to taste tartly on her palette. She could never have guessed at the Theta Theta Psi pledge dinner the week before that she would find herself here: on her knees, moving her head up and down, lapping at the dark-haired sorority treasurer’s naked crotch.

Shannon continued to press and guide the blonde head between her legs, and Jessica’s tongue worked itself further and further inside Shannon’s cunt. As Shannon grew wetter, Jessica involuntarily began to work her lips into the task, slurping messily at Shannon’s pussy in order to take in breath. Apparently, the performance pleased Shannon, who finally released Jessica’s hair from her grasp and leaned back into the couch.

“I think she’s really starting to enjoy her first taste of pussy,” said someone in a Russian accent. Jessica tried to ignore the men watching and just continue the mechanical working of her tongue and mouth in the hopes of bringing this humiliating ordeal to a conclusion.

Shannon let out a soft “ohh . . .” The sound was so out of character that Jessica was momentarily confused and paused in her slurping rhythm, but Shannon immediately reached down and gave the back of her head a sharp slap with a harsh “What?” So, fearfully, Jessica resumed eating Shannon out.

Shannon began to squirm in her seat, and Jessica had to follow the erratic movements of Shannon’s crotch with her head in order to keep running her tongue up and down its damp folds. Shannon began to grind into Jessica’s face, thrusting her pussy so firmly against Jessica’s mouth that she was worried she might not be able to breathe. At one point, Shannon’s thighs closed around Jessica’s head and squeezed her ears, causing Jessica to momentarily panic at the feeling of suffocation before she was released.

Gradually, the acute shame of her position—bent down on all fours in front the couch, face buried between Shannon’s bare legs, everyone watching her pleasure another woman with her tongue—was joined by physical discomfort. Her arms and back ached, and her tongue and jaw were becoming increasingly exhausted.

Just when Jessica was beginning to think she wouldn’t be able to keep up the taxing, submissive performance much longer, Shannon let out a low moan and her lower body shuddered. Jessica slowed her lapping and glanced up at the older girl, trying to get a feel for whether she should continue. To Jessica’s relief, Shannon inched up higher in her seat, pulling her cunt away from Jessica’s mouth.

Jessica remained in place on all fours, looking up at Shannon for her next instruction. All around her mouth was smeared with saliva and Shannon’s juices, which began to drip down her chin.

“Wow, I think you’ve found a new talent, Jess,” said Nick. “What do you think, Shan? How was it?”

“mmmnnnot bad I guess . . .” Shannon half-sighed, seeming to suppress a shiver. Shakily, she rose to her feet, bumping Jessica’s face with her knee in the process, and grabbed her black panties, pulling them up her legs and over her shapely ass.

“Stand up, Jessica,” said Nick.

Jessica raised herself off the rug, subtly wiping a forearm across her face to clear off some of fluids that clung to it. She stood facing the six men but could not bring herself to make eye contact with any of them after what they’d just watched her do.

“That was some champion carpet munching,” Nick said. “Now it’s your turn . . .”

Jessica’s stomach dropped, but, before she could do anything, Shannon, who had just retrieved her pants, shoved her way past Jessica.

“Wait! What the fuck, Nick? If you think I’m gonna put my face anywhere near this bitch’s dirty snatch, you’re out of your mind . . .”

“Shannon, Jesus, calm down . . .” sighed Nick.

Staz proffered up the book with a fresh line of coke measured out. Tossing her pants down on the couch, Shannon stalked over to Staz, panty-clad hips swaying in defiance, and snorted it up before whirling around to face Jessica.

“Ok, cunt, take off your god damn pants,” she ordered, a slightly crazed look in her eyes.

Jessica backed away from her a step. Her mouth hung open as if to protest, but no words came out.

“Obedience, Jessica . . .” corroborated nick in an authoritative tone. “You’re going to enjoy this. I promise. Let’s start by having you put your hands on your head.”

Jessica gulped and hesitated, but a quick glance at the look in Nick’s eyes convinced her not to make him repeat his command. She nodded quickly, eyes back down to the floor, croaking out a quiet “yes, sir.” Shaking, she put her hands on your head.

“Jessica’s sometimes a little slow to figure out instructions,” said Nick, turning to their Russian hosts. “It’s cute. But we’ll be here all day waiting for her. She needs someone to pull her shorts down for her. Pasha, you want to help her out? Jess, you stay right where you are.”

Jessica shook her head forlornly but did not move or protest. Skinny Pasha, for his part, grinned broadly and set down his drink. Rising from the sofa with a nimbleness surprising for a man his size, he approached Jessica, looming over the girl whose head barely reached his chest.

“Shame beautiful girl like you only like pussy,” he purred down at her, as, to Jessica’s horror, he explored the fly of her pants with the tips of his fingers. “You ever ready for real man, you talk to Skinny Pasha, eh?”

Then, without warning, the big man popped the button of her shorts and roughly slid the zipper down to its crux. Circling around and crouching behind her, he then tugged her shorts, revealing the red thong underneath. Pausing ever so briefly to admire the sight of red elastic rising boldly from between Jessica’s ass cheeks, he proceeded to slip his hands beneath the waistband of the underwear and slowly peel it downward until, slipping it past her knees, he allowed the thong to fall to her ankles where it joined her crumpled pants.

Pasha rose to his feet and took a step backwards. Jessica stood in place, her hands on her head, her pants around her ankles and her blouse barely concealing her shaved pussy from the room full of men surrounding her.

“Thanks for your help, Pasha,” said Nick. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, would you pull that chair front and center?”

Not taking his eyes off the blonde Freshman standing in terrified attention, stripped from the waist down, the large man grabbed the puffy leather armchair that Nick had indicated and dragged it to the center of the room, right next to Jessica. He then returned to his seat next to Staz.

“Ok, Jessica, you’re going to bend over that chair,” instructed Nick. “And unless you want some more help, you’ll be quick about it.”

As dismayed as Jessica was at the thought of once more bending over and offering up her naked bottom to whatever new torment Nick and Shannon had in mind, the last thing she wanted was for that giant or one of these other goons to grab her and force her over the chair. So, choking out another “yes, sir,” Jessica lowered her hands and scooted around to face the chair with as much grace as her clothing-constrained ankles would allow.

Jessica leaned across the chair’s padded arm and grabbed the other, far arm, letting her torso fall down into the deep seat. Following her upper body’s downward slope, the tail of her blouse gradually eased its way up her lower back, bringing her naked bottom into full display.

One of the men, Staz it sounded like, sucked in at his teeth. “Oh my goodness, that ass! God damn it is a thing of beauty, yes?”

Jessica heard Shannon stride up behind her and she flinched as she felt Shannon’s cold hand reach out and touch her nude bottom.

“Jesus, this is getting you so hot right now, isn’t it?” Shannon said, letting her palm drift down the curvature of Jessica’s butt cheek towards her thigh. “You just love hoisting your ass in air in front of all these guys . . .”

Shannon’s fingers dove between Jessica’s legs, gently stroking the hairless lips of Jessica’s vagina. Involuntarily, Jessica tensed at the invasion, letting out a surprised “Nng!,” her thighs clenching shut, nearly trapping Shannon’s hand.

Shannon responded by slapping Jessica’s ass sharply with her other hand.

“Hey! The fuck was that? Spread your legs, slut . . .” Shannon scolded her.

Roughly, Shannon reached down and tore Jessica’s shorts and panties off of her ankles, freeing her legs to open wider. Biting her lip to hold back tears, Jessica tentatively obeyed Shannon’s harsh nudging and widened her stance, exposing more of her sensitive sex to the cruel sorority girl’s advances.

Shannon’s hand came down forcefully on the small of Jessica’s back, pinning her down over the chair arm. At the same time, Shannon’s other hand went straight between Jessica’s open legs, cupping her crotch firmly from pubis to taint, as if scooping it up. She kept her hand in that position for a moment, grinding her palm against Jessica’s womanhood as if savoring the thoroughness of her domination. Then, her hand slid upwards as her fingers began to stroke Jessica’s exposed pussy.

The physical intensity of the violation rolled up Jessica’s spine in shuddering waves, causing a tiny moan of shame to escape her lips. She wanted desperately to shield herself from the invasion, to wriggle away from Shannon’s touch. But she was completely helpless. She had no choice but to maintain the humiliating position she had been commanded to assume. Instead, she simply buried her face in the seat cushion, letting her sorority sister have her way with her vulnerable pussy.

“Keep your head up, Jessica. Face forward . . .” she heard Nick call to her.

Reluctantly, Jessica lifted her head. Once again, she found herself staring into a camera lens, as Dylan bobbled the camcorder in front of her, recording her every reaction to her degradation. Jessica’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Did I hear a ‘yes, sir’?” Nick asked.

“Y-yes . . . S-suuuuhhh-irrr . . .” Jessica moaned quietly, just as Shannon’s middle finger began rubbing aggressively against her clit.

“Hey, Shan,” came Nick’s voice again, “Take a look through the bag of goodies we picked up from Red Hott. There ought to be a nice purple vibrator I think the two of you would have some fun with. Should be a bottle of lube in there too.”

Jessica’s eyes went wide. She had seen a vibrator once, when she was twelve. It had belonged to her friend Samantha’s mom, and Samantha had led her conspiratorially to the sock drawer where it was hidden to inspect the forbidden object. But Jessica had certainly never used one herself. The idea frightened her, sticking a whirring mechanical device next to her private areas.

Shannon withdrew her hand from Jessica’s crotch and walked away.

There was a crinkling sound of a paper bag being jostled that wrung Jessica’s stomach in knots. The fact that she could not see what was going on behind her heightened the horrible sense of dread. Then, a scarier sound made Jessica’s heart skip. From just behind her vulnerable naked ass and spread thighs, there came a low bzzzzzzzzzzzz.

When the cold, vibrating plastic made contact with Jessica’s pussy, she gasped in shock. The sensation was entirely foreign. Shannon pressed the vibrator, which felt to be about the size of a hot dog, firmly down against Jessica’s clit and moved it around slowly in concentric circles. Jessica’s mouth widened into a large, silent “oh” and her body tensed and rocked forward over the chair, causing an appreciative reaction from the men on the couches.

As the buzzing emanating from her loins brought her closer and closer to losing control, Jessica’s thighs began to shake violently and her body began to squirm around involuntarily like an epileptic. Though she tried to keep silent, lest any sound she make be mistaken for a cry of pleasure, the intense feelings spasming up from where the vibrator rubbed against her clitoris seemed to push bursts of air past her vocal chords, forcing her pursed lips apart.

“Wuuhhh-ahhh . . .” she grunted. “Unnnghh-ohh-ah-ah . . .”

The climax came upon her suddenly, her entire body tensing with the force of the involuntary orgasm, her fingers eating into the leather of the puffy armrest. Her soft grunts rose in pitch and volume to a sustained “Ohhhh-ahhhhhhh!”

Thankfully, mercifully, upon this highly visible and audible display of release, Shannon withdrew the vibrator. The buzzing stopped. Jessica’s muscles slowly began to relax, interrupted only by momentary aftershocks from the orgasm that would every so often ripple through her body.

She gulped in air, unable to believe what had just happened. She had never experienced a physical sensation like that before. With mounting shame, she realized she had just allowed herself to cum in front of a roomful of strange men, bent over a chair while another woman assaulted her pussy from behind with a sex toy, all to her apparent enjoyment.

Breathing heavily, she waited to be given permission to close her legs, to rise from her degrading position and cover herself. But instead, she heard a wet “splrrt” from where Shannon was standing. Suddenly, Shannon’s hand was back between Jessica’s legs, and this time it was smearing some sort of moist, slippery substance all over her crotch.

Shannon’s fingers spread the lubrication all over the surface of Jessica’s snatch. Then, to Jessica’s dismay, the fingers nudged their way between Jessica’s plump shaved labia and gradually eased upwards, penetrating further and further inside her vagina.

Jessica had barely registered this new invasion when Shannon’s fingers pulled out of her pussy with a wet slurp and were replaced with the plastic head of the vibrator. Jessica’s eyes opened wide in alarm and she looked back over her shoulder to see Shannon preparing to shove the rigid purple shaft up inside her.

“N-no . . . please . . .” she panted meekly, “please don-oh-ooooooohhh!”

Jessica’s protests were cut short as Shannon forced the unyielding plastic phallus deep inside her. It was a modestly-sized vibrator and, thanks to the lubrication, its glide was relatively smooth, but Jessica’s tight, nearly-virgin pussy still greeted the sudden incursion with shock and discomfort.

Her jaw hung open and her fingers dug deep into the armrest as, in speechless horror, she felt Shannon slide the sex toy out and then thrust it firmly back in. Suddenly, there was no other way to describe what was happening to her: she was being fucked.

Shannon slid the vibrator in and out of Jessica’s pussy with increasing speed, sending her body rocking violently against the chair. Jessica simply closed her eyes tight and began to pray for the violation to come to an end. Then, Shannon flipped a switch and vibrator came to life once again, filling Jessica’s loins with its intense whirring.

This time, the device’s vibrations came from deep inside her, causing a different but no less intense sensation. Shannon continued to fuck her from behind with the buzzing purple wand, and, suddenly, Jessica was losing control again. Thighs shaking wildly, stomach clenching, she found herself rising towards a second humiliating orgasm.

“Oh g-god . . .” she heard herself say.

The climax was more sustained this time, assaulting Jessica’s body for what seemed like minutes. Then, Shannon’s thrusts slowed, and finally, she slipped the vibrator out of Jessica’s now-sopping-wet pussy, switching it off as she did so.

There was a smattering of applause from the men on the couch.

Jessica was left completely spent, draped like a damp dishrag over the armchair, barely able to think let alone move or speak. She was just beginning to register, with mounting shame and disgust, the sensation of liquid, a mix of lube and her own sex juices, trickling out of her vagina and down her inner thigh, when suddenly, there was a knock on the cabin door.