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.”