Queen Captured – Act III: Knight (scene ii)

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Eighth Chapter of W.H. Collins’s dark erotic fantasyAll 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.

The main road had been new paved since the last time Isabella had visited the lands west of the capital. It was leveler than she remembered, and a fresh coat of gravel coated its surface. The wagon train made good time, and, by the time the sun had cleared the tops of the trees that lined the southward side of the road, they were already passing by farms and through small villages that could reasonably be said to fall within the capital’s outskirts.

Their procession drew considerable attention, farmers and townsfolk coming out to stand in doorways and lean against fences to watch the flapping banners of the returning White cavalry and their long convoy. Isabella tried to keep her head down, shielding her face beneath cascades of black hair, but there was nowhere in her small crate to hide, and, like a leading circus attraction, the sight of the caged woman in the elegant black dress, prominently drawn in a wagon all her own, became an object of special interest.

Several times, she heard exclamations as she passed, sometimes questioning sometimes insistent, sometimes whispers sometimes shouts, sometimes referring to “Princess Isabella” or “the Black Queen” but more often to a nebulous “her.” Head down, she could not see them pointing, but she felt it.

They had just moved through a village, its general hubbub fading, when a particularly close voice caused her to look up.

“Then how come she ain’t movin’?” piped a small voice right beside her.

Isabella lifted her head for long enough to see a small boy—or possibly a girl, it was difficult to tell beneath the tangled hair and dirt-encrusted face—trotting alongside the wagon, breaking out into a periodic run to keep up. Matching his (or her) uneven pace were two older boys, perhaps 11 or 12 years of age to her (or his) 7 or 8. Looking around, she saw that several other village children had been drawn to her wagon and were jogging along the other side.

At Isabella’s sudden movement, some of them jumped back, falling behind the wagon temporarily before scampering to catch up.

“See? I told you she weren’t dead, dummy!” said one.

“Is it the queen? How come she inna cage?” the smaller child asked in a high, wobbly voice.

“She ain’t queen no more!” said another child. “That’s the Black Witch. Isabella of . . . of Mardmom. They catched ‘er during the fightin’ up north. I ‘erd Tawny Bill n’ ‘em talkin’ of it at the tavern yesternight.”

“Nuh-uh,” another responded. “My Pa says she weren’t queen and never was. Queen Joan’s the true queen. Lady Isabel jus’ used ‘er magic so as some folks got confuse.”

“Where they takin’ ‘er?”

Isabella closed her eyes, trying to ignore the urchins’ shrill gabbling. She had almost succeeded in shutting them out, their sing-song chatter fading into background along with the scrape of wheels on gravel and the clopping and snorting of horses, when a sharp pain in her side jolted her into abrupt alertness. Her eyes flew open with a yelp of shock, and her head jerked upright, clanging against the bars. She scrambled towards the other side of the cage, away from the source of the sudden pain.

Isabella looked behind her wild-eyed. One of the boys was holding what looked to be a tree branch. It was more than half the child’s height, its extraneous limbs crudely broken off and its end whittled into a sharp point.

Once more, the children fell back in momentary apprehension at Isabella’s stirring. Seeing no immediate fallout from their companion’s audacious actions, however, they quickly regained their confidence, scurrying to catch up with the wagon with renewed enthusiasm, giggling and chattering excitedly now that it seemed like a game was truly underway.

Up ahead, the white-uniformed horseman driving the wagon remained focused on the road, having either failed to hear his prisoner’s scream over the general clatter of the procession or else willfully ignoring her distress.

The boy with the pointed stick approached the cage once again, flaunting his audacity for the benefit of his companions. Skipping along to stay even with the wagon while dodging the gravel being kicked up by its tall wheels, he leaned in as close as he could to the moving cage in order to take aim at the far corner where the exotic captive had retreated.

He poked his stick through the bars. The pointed end waggled in front of Isabella as the boy gauged where to strike. The young hooligan’s impudence awoke a dormant ferocity in the Black Queen. With a snarl, she seized the stick, snapping off the end with a splintery crunch. Grabbing the remaining stem in both hands, she tugged, pulling the branch hand over hand towards her.

The boy, too surprised or too stupid to let go, soon found his arm yanked through the bars. Isabella snatched his forearm, sinking her nails into his skin. She twisted his arm until he cried out. His face smashed against one of the metal bars, and he lost his footing. Isabella released him, and he fell backwards into the gravel.

Far from being cowed, the rest of the children seemed invigorated by this drama. They laughed and clapped their hands, dancing around the wagon. There seemed to be more and more of them, the excitement drawing them out of the passing fields and woods like iron filings to a lodestone, or else summoned by some secret communication network for grubby-faced truants.

One of the soldiers barked half-heartedly at the rascals to go home, but the children, well-schooled in gauging the toothlessness of authority figures’ commands, ignored him.

Isabella felt a pudgy forefinger jab into her back. She whirled around, but the brat had already retreated out of arm’s reach, tittering to his comrades. While her head was turned, another tree branch slipped through the bars on the other side of the cage and jabbed her in the thigh. She snatched at it, but it slid away before she could lay her fingers on it.

There was more laughter and playful shouting. Isabella realized she was giving the little hoodlums exactly what they wanted, and, in desperation, resolved to switch back to her failed strategy of non-engagement. She scooted towards the center of the cage and pulled her limbs close. When a child reached through the bars to touch her, she pretended not to notice. When another took aim at her with a stick, she did her best to deflect and dodge it.

This passive tactic worked not at all. Within moments, the threshold for mischief had been so lowered that even the young mob’s most timid participants felt they’d been given permission to score a point or two by touching the woman in the cage. And the ringleaders, seeing their social cachet diluted, began to ratchet up the aggressiveness of their attacks.

Soon, half a dozen hands were reaching towards her from all sides, prodding and groping. Some couldn’t reach, but a few of the older boys had arms’ span to spare. One of them grabbed a fistful of her gown. Another managed to get his fingers around the thin chain that drooped between her wrists. Isabella swatted at their hands, but as soon as she convinced one to relinquish its grasp, another seized a different part of her body. She screamed in pain as one boy, a lanky, red-headed lad with a lazy eye, snatched ahold of her hair and pulled forcefully, causing her to topple over on her side.

There were a dozen or more of them now, mostly boys, some barely out of swaddling clothes, some at the cusp of manhood with wispy moustaches and burgeoning Adam’s apples beneath the grime that universally caked their faces. The littler ones danced around the cart laughing, joining one another in rhyming nursery chants and darting in opportunistically whenever the chance to pinch or prod the object of their fun presented itself. The older boys, meanwhile, seemed to take their game more seriously. Behind their leering grins, their eyes were focused, fixated on pinning down their slippery prey.

“See ‘ere, Charley, you go round thatta side ‘n grab ‘er other leg,” one boy was saying, raising his voice to be heard over the rest of the swarm, whose sing-song patter had coalesced into a single refrain:

“Ol’ Black Queen! ‘Ere she come! Wif a stick stuck up ‘er bum! Picks ‘er nose! Smells ‘er feets! Lets the farmboys milk ‘er teats!”

The tune, plagiarized from an older song, was infectious, and the children seized upon the anthem with the single-mindedness typical to their age. When Isabella had held power, the insolent little ragamuffins could have been arrested for this treasonous disrespect alone, executed perhaps. Now, it was merely the soundtrack to what was becoming an increasingly desperate battle between the chained noblewoman and the horde of tiny grasping hands and leering faces that encircled her.

Isabella landed a swift kick deep into the elbow of a boy who was reaching for her exposed calf. It was the one called “Charley” most likely. The chain between her ankles limited her maneuverability, but, whipping her leg around in a tight arc, she managed to gather an impressive amount of force behind the counterattack. Charley (or whatever the little lowlife’s name was) screamed in pain as his arm bent the wrong direction, twisted between the iron railings of the cage like a pry bar.

“Ooooooh!” hooted some of the children. Others barely acknowledged the violence, too animated by their chants—“. . . Picks ‘er nose! Smells ‘er feets! . . .”—to let the distress of their comrade, who stumbled back into their midst clutching his arm and howling, shake them from their rhythm.

But they kept coming at her. There were too many. They had her surrounded. No sooner would she repulse one encroachment than another would close in from the opposite direction. To her dismay, Isabella realized her wagon was slowing. The children no longer had to jog as hard to keep up, and they began to reach through the bars with greater confidence.

Able to launch more sustained incursions from positions of greater leverage, their grasping hands became harder and harder to fend off. One boy scored a solid handhold around her ankle. At the same time, a set of greasy fingers had slipped between her shoulder blades beneath the neck of her dress, and she heard the material rip.

She lashed out, her body flailing in tight contortions like pinned insect, but the moment she’d managed to shake off the fist clenched around her ankle, two more hands darted forward, each gathering up bundles of black fabric from the flowing hem of Isabella’s gown and tugging her towards their side of the cage with all the strength they could muster. As she struggled to pull away, Isabella heard another tear open in her lavish costume.

Suddenly, the cart ground to a full stop, sending Isabella tumbling. Her child tormentors were also thrown off balance and released their grips on the captive queen’s clothes and body, stumbling away from the tottering cart. As the dust from the gravel road rose and settled, some of the boys turned back towards the cage, eager to pick up where they’d left off, but most stepped back, craning their heads up and down the column of soldiers, waiting to see what would happen next.

Sure enough, the White horseman who’d been pulling the wagon dismounted. Too distracted or indifferent while the caravan was in motion to deal with the little mob that had gathered around his cargo, he now stomped into their midst as if scattering a swarm of flies.

“Off with you now!” he growled, cuffing one youngster on the ear and reaching menacingly for his sword.

The children dispersed as the soldier waved his arms, but Isabella noticed they didn’t go far, hanging back just a few paces off the road.

She righted herself and tried her best to regather her composure. Assessing the damage to her dress, she traced her fingers up the long tear that began at the hem and forked off in multiple jagged directions as it rose above her knee. On the other side, a ragged flap the size of a deck of cards drooped diagonally across the front of her thigh, held on by a narrow edge. Her right shoulder and arm were bare, the black material of the gown falling in saggy tatters down her back.

Several knights clopped past her. There was activity both ahead and behind her along the road. Certain wagons were being rolled off to the side, and various elements of Sir Stewart’s retinue were rearranging themselves. Isabella craned her head, ducking to evade the low wood ceiling that obstructed her sightlines.

Squinting out towards the horizon, she scanned across a forest of spindly smoke trails. Such a dense cluster of soot-bearing plumes could only arise from the hundreds of wood-burning stoves and chimneys of the Kingdom’s capital, she thought. And, indeed, through the grey-black canopy, she could just make out the royal palace, sitting atop the Hill of St. Theobald, the city’s highest point.

As she was gauging their distance—at their current pace, they could be approaching the city gates within an hour—Sir Stewart’s page jogged up beside her.

“Follow me, sir,” he said, addressing the soldier assigned to Isabella’s cart. “My master has convened a meeting to discuss arrangements for our entry into the city. You are needed.”

The soldier let out a contemptuous grunt, as if he felt the arrangements for their entry into the city had already been adequately discussed.

“And who’ll guard the sorceress then?” he asked. “The White Knight’s already reassigned half the company to take care of those damned monkeys.”

“The Whore of Aardmore isn’t going anywhere,” the page responded, jangling the set of keys around his belt for emphasis.

“Seems to me . . .” began the soldier, but the page cut him off.

“I have orders directly from Sir Stewart, appointed High Marshal by the King himself, that you are to join him at once. How he provides for the security of his prisoners is not for you to dictate, sirrah.”

The soldier shrugged and marched after the page. Seeing him turn, Isabella was seized by a sudden dread. Glancing off to the side of the road, she made eye contact with the lazy-eyed red-headed boy. He was sprawled out on a grassy slope, a length of straw drooping from his mouth.

“Wait!” she called after the departing men, her voice soft and hoarse at first but rising in volume and clarity in proportion to her panic. “Wait! Don’t! Sir! Please! Wait! This place . . . It’s not safe! Wait!”

The irony of her position, begging her captors to stay with her, gave her pleas a strained, quavering quality. She scooted all the way over to the front of the cage, clutching the bars, watching them disappear from sight around a large group of riderless horses who’d been tethered together to a stake near the side of the road up ahead of her. She opened her mouth to cry out once more, but no sound emerged. Her jaw snapped closed in futility.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the village children begin to stir. They’d been milling about the woods beside the road, watching the activity or else resting from their chase on the side of a small knoll that rose softly towards the east. Now, in ones and twos, checking to see that the soldiers were occupied at the front of the line, they inched closer. Isabella whirled around. Everywhere she looked, they were closing in.

“Stay back!” she spat at them, scrambling around her cage for some sort of weapon, something to throw at them. Finally, in wild-eyed desperation, she raised her clothed arm in front of her. “I’ll . . . I’ll cast a spell on you! I’ll curse you all!”

A few of the children stopped, alarm spreading across their small faces. Some of them, however, apparently found the performance unconvincing. Or perhaps the swarm had simply developed a will of its own, transcending the individual fears and desires of its members. In any case, they kept moving forward, coalescing into a tight ring around the cart, and soon the boldest boys had their faces pressed against the bars of cage. The young rabble’s excited chatter and laughing began to build again, and the staccato lyrics of their song were taken up in fits and starts, fortifying the confidence of the mob.

“. . . Here she come! Wif a stick stuck up ‘er bum! . . .”

One of the boys reached for her. Isabella tried deliver a kick to his face, but she was thrown off balance by someone yanking at her dress from the other side. Instead, her foot awkwardly slapped against the bars of the cage, and another boy reached through and grabbed her ankle with both hands. He pulled it through the bars, knocking Isabella unto her back.

Her head slammed against the cage floor. Immediately, several hands closed in on her hair, seizing bundles of black curls and greedily dragging them in different directions, as if each trying to tear off their own souvenir. Isabella gasped, emitting a high, girlish shriek, the register of which sounded totally unfamiliar to her.

She raised her arms up over her head and began pounding blindly with her fists. One hand after another let go as she pummeled them from knuckles to forearm. When one particularly tenacious boy wouldn’t let go, she grabbed his hand in hers, struggling to at least relieve the pressure on her scalp. It was a mistake. Someone reached through the bars and took ahold of her wrist. A moment later, someone else had snatched her other wrist.

“. . . Lets the farmboys milk ‘er teats! . . .”

The boy holding her foot dug his heels into the gravel road and leaned back, attempting to tug her leg further through the bars. Isabella resisted, straining to draw her knee up towards her chest. She bucked and floundered on the floor of the cage, grunting in exertion, trying simultaneously to fend off the attacks above and below.

Meanwhile, as the older boys attempted to pin down her hands and feet, the younger children continued darting in and out between them, jabbing the noblewoman opportunistically with sticks or snatching at whatever loose bits of clothing were swept their way by the undulations of Isabella’s struggle. The tear in her dress opened further. A few of the diminutive creeps managed to get their grubby fingers on her petticoat, and this too began to rip.

In her fight to keep her arms and legs inside the cart, she was forced to plant her other foot against the bars for leverage. Another mistake. Before she could push against the side of the cage, try to yank her right leg free, her left leg was pounced upon. From her position flat on her back, Isabella’s head jolted up in alarm.

It was the redhead. Both of his grubby hands were squeezed tight around her ankle. When he saw her look up at him, he grinned broadly. Like many of the children, he was missing half his teeth, but, unlike some of the others, it was clear from the lad’s age that in his case the gaps in his smile were never going to be filled.

“. . . Ol’ Black Queen. ‘Ere she come . . .” he sang along under his breath.

She tried to jerk away, but the boy held fast. At his twisting and nudging, her bare sole slipped off the smooth iron bars and into the space between. He yanked her foot through, adjusting his grip along her calf like a mariner taking charge of the ship’s rigging.

Isabella now found both her legs sticking out of the cage, a single metal pole between them. The two adolescent boys pulling her forward shared a look, a conspiratorial smirk that also conveyed the boys’ sheer amazement at their circumstances, the twist of fortune that had dropped these long, slender legs literally into their hands.

Isabella kicked, and the boys were bucked about, wrestling for control of the royal limbs as if subduing a pair of ferocious serpents. The boy on the right turned his back to the cage, tucking Isabella’s shin beneath his armpit for better leverage.

They continued to tug. Isabella found herself sliding on her back towards the side of the cage, her dress bunching up around the bars while, outside, the soft white skin of her legs—still smooth from the most recent grooming imposed upon her by Sir Stewart’s camp followers—emerged inch by inch into the sunlight. First her calves and then her knees and finally the beginnings of her thighs, their supple flesh pinched ever so slightly as they squeezed between the metal posts.

They would have pulled her even further outside were it not for the children on the other side of the wagon. Isabella’s arms, crossed at the wrists above her head, had been yanked through the bars. Other sets of hands had reached into the cage as well, gripping her biceps and shoulders. Her body was now stretched between the two groups as if upon a rack.

“ . . .Picks ‘er nose! Smells ‘er feets! . . .” they clapped and sang.

Isabella watched helplessly as a grimy adolescent hand appeared from somewhere behind her ear and worked its way underneath the front of her corset. Apparently straining the limits of his reach, the unseen boy stretched his greedy fingers as far as they could down Isabella’s chest, groping and fondling as he went. Isabella turned her head to try to bite his arm, but a yank to her hair made her snap her neck back with an anguished cry.

Pulling and nudging and rolling, the boy managed to coax her left tit towards him, directing it upwards until it finally spilled out over the lip of her corset, where it remained propped in an unnatural erection. Now in nearer arms’ reach, several other young hands closed in to poke or pinch her nude breast. Isabella gasped in pain as one of them snatched her nipple between thumb and forefinger and gave it a sudden wrenching twist. Peals of laughter followed.

Meanwhile, determined to win their tug-of-war, the children on the other side of the wagon had managed to pull her legs through the bars all the way to mid-thigh.

“How come her thingy got no hair?” she heard a small voice ask.

“She royalty ain’t she, dummy?” answered one of the older boys. “Whud you expect her cunt to look jus’ like your ma?”

“Don’ look like nuffin special to me!” offered another voice.

“Hey, come’n take a look!” called another.

Isabella lifted her head. A group of children had gathered close to look up her dress, beneath which she was wearing nothing. They leaned in to gawk at her bald cunny, lying exposed just a few inches from bars, as if it were a sideshow exhibit.

A pair of them reached through the bars to grab the hems of the bunched-up dress and petticoat that were partially obstructing the view. They first lifted the material up towards the top of the cage, forming a billowing tent to surround the circus attraction that was the captive queen’s naked groin. Then, with a coordinated heave-ho, they flung it backwards towards the other side of the cage.

It was an impressive toss. The flowing black skirt fell around Isabella’s face, and everything suddenly went dark. The children on the other side of the wagon grabbed the skirt and pulled it further upwards until the upper half of her body was totally engulfed, drowning in black cloth, while the lower half of her body, from her belly button down, was left completely naked.

The feeling of total exposure overwhelmed her. Unable to see what was happening, she could feel the hands on her bare legs and feel the eyes on her bare crotch. She squirmed helplessly.

Through the partial sensory deprivation of her black cocoon, she could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and the monotonous meter of their ceaseless juvenile chant:

“. . . Smells her feets! Lets the farmboys milk ‘er teats! The ol’ Black Queen! ‘Ere she come! . . .”

The hands touching her legs grew more numerous and worked their way further upwards, but it took a moment for the young mob to overcome its apparent awe and explore the mysterious bits of flesh waiting inside the cage. Finally, amid a chorus of giggles, she felt someone reach through the bars and softly pinch her labia. This opened the floodgates. Suddenly, half a dozen hands were clamoring to claim a piece of the most private areas of her body, prodding her, squeezing her thighs, burrowing beneath her buttocks. With a sense of overpowering disgust, she felt one of their thumbs work its way inside her.

She moaned in humiliation, the shame of enduring such domination from mere boys bringing tears to her eyes beneath the suffocating blanket of her dress.

“’Ere! ‘Ere! Use dis!” she heard someone call out.

“Oh ho ho!” answered another, and there was the sound of general laughter.

The adolescent hands exploring her body withdrew all at once. At the same time, they pulled her legs further apart and forced them upwards, raising them so high that the boys grasping her ankles must have been holding them above their heads. Again, she tried to kick, but her range of movement was limited, and she couldn’t shake the little monsters off.

It was then that she felt an object, ribbed with soft bumps but otherwise smooth and tapering into a blunted point, press between the cheeks of her upturned bottom. The cold, mysterious object fumbled up and down the cleft of her ass until, finally feeling out a pliant slot, it attempted to twist its way inside her.

“Errrrnnnnnnnnnggggh!!” Isabella screeched from beneath the tattered encasement of her dress.

For what seemed like an eternity of discomfort, the malicious pack of boys probed her with whatever crude item they’d found, all the while laughing and chanting. They tried several times to shove the pointed object further inside her but were unable to insert it much past its tip. To Isabella’s relief, after a final rough thrust, it was removed.

“’s too dry!” she heard one of the boys shout. “’Ere! Spit on’t!”

“Yeah! Spit on’t! Spit on’t!” came a chorus of mirthful echoes.

Even under the layers of fabric, Isabella could vaguely make out the loud, theatrical noises of spitting. One after another, the children appeared to be taking turns noisily adding their saliva to whatever disgusting reservoir they were building. P’tooooo. P’tooooo. P’toooooo.

When there had been enough spitting to seemingly coat a whole arsenal of makeshift phalluses, the sounds stopped. Isabella held her breath. Then, she felt the tip of the object return, this time unmistakably slimy and slick. Her stomach churned. She thought she might vomit as she imagined the collective phlegm of these filthy urchins being smeared over and in her.

Their nauseating methods worked. The tool slid more easily, lubricated by the film of adolescent spittle.

“Ah! Ah!” Isabella cried as they twisted and shoved the object deeper and deeper, deeper than she thought it could possibly go, so deep that she could soon feel the knuckles of the boy conducting the humiliating intrusion between the cheeks of her buttocks as he continued to work with the small nub that still remained outside her.

“What in God’s name . . . ?!”

This exclamation of utter astonishment came wrapped in Sir Stewart’s unmistakable haughty tenor. At the sound of the White Knight’s voice, the activity in and around Isabella’s bottom abruptly froze. The knuckles withdrew, leaving whatever the juvenile thugs had stuffed inside her poking lewdly out.

A commotion followed, shouting and clanging of metal. The cluster of small hands entwining her wrists and pinning her shoulders and elbows above her head all abruptly released her. Like a drowning victim bursting through the surface of her translucent tomb, Isabella sprang upright, knocking her tattered dress out of her face with a fierce backhand.

All around her, the mob of children were scattering as Sir Stewart and two of his knights, swords drawn, circled the cage, boxing whatever ears and kicking whatever backsides fell within their reach. Isabella emerged just in time to see the red-headed boy, who had held tight to her shapely white leg despite the violence around him, ripped from his cherished possession as the White Knight grabbed him by his collar and flung him to the ground.

The boy scrambled away piteously, lazy eye wide with fear, gap-toothed mouth open with a half-formulated plea. In an act of almost casual whimsy, Sir Stewart snapped up a short, one-handed mace from his belt and, with an offhanded flick of his wrist, smashed in the boy’s skull. There was a sharp crack, and a slurry of brain and bone chips splurted off to the side as the lad collapsed motionless, face-down in the grass beside the road.

Sir Stewart pivoted back around towards the cage, spinning the mace absent-mindedly in his hand.

“Peasant trash,” he sniffed, though his tone carried a hint of reluctant admiration. “Leave a morsel of meat lying about, it’s remarkable how swiftly the maggots gather.”

He peered closer at Isabella, looking her ruffled, manhandled form up and down, and a smile of surprise and amusement began to build across his face that he made only the most superficial show of repressing. His knights joined his side to share in the sorrowful sight, both wearing similar expressions of restrained mirth.

Under their gaze, Isabella did her best to collect herself, head still spinning from the ordeal. She pulled her legs back inside the cage and brushed her frazzled and tangled hair out of her face. Glancing down at her left breast, still squishing out obscenely over the top of her mangled corset, she tried to stuff it back into her dress. When the hefty mound of flesh refused to cooperate, she crossed her arm across her chest before looking up to meet Sir Stewart’s eyes.

“How . . . How could you . . .” she croaked out, trying to stop her chin from trembling. “How could you let them? Have you no . . . no honor? No honor at all, Sir?”

“Deepest apologies, My Lady,” answered the White Knight, his smirk broadcasting anything but sincerity. “But, after all, mere children . . . Who could have known they would dare molest the infamous Black Queen, warrior maid, storied butcher of the Battle of the Fens?”

The two other knights exchanged a look of merriment that made Isabella furious. Battle of the Fens. Had these two been part of the White cavalry she had defeated in that savage engagement last autumn amid the marshes? She should have slaughtered every one of them.

She shifted her weight, and a sudden, wrenching discomfort made her gasp. An awareness that had somehow been compartmentalized amid the tumult of Sir Stewart’s bloody arrival now came surging back to the fore of her consciousness. Gulping down quick shallow breaths, her eyes flitted back and forth among the three men staring at her in amused curiosity.

She reached down as discreetly as she could manage and fumbled underneath her skirt until she found the blunt shaft protruding from her bottom. Unable to get a firm grip, she was forced to roll to her side and hike the dress up her naked hips. Reaching around her back, she dug her nails into the soft sides of the object and pulled.

“Uuuuunnnnnnngggggh,” she groaned as the saliva-coated shaft slid painfully out of her.

She held up the disgusting object to finally see what humiliating device her young tormentors had found to fuck her with. It was a carrot.

It was too much for the three knights. Seeing the captive noblewoman’s dumbfounded expression as she held up the slimy orange vegetable she’d just pulled from her rectum, all three burst into open guffaws. One of them planted his sword into the earth and turned away doubled over in laughter, so delighted was he by the former monarch’s distress.

Sir Stewart, however, quickly suppressed his grin beneath a mask of dutiful solemnity. He approached the cage and grasped the bars. Reaching through, he pulled a corner of Isabella’s mutilated dress towards him, shaking his head.

“What puerile imaginations these farmboys have. I worry for the morals of our Kingdom’s youth. Truly. And this dress! Imported! Impossible to replicate such needlework. Such a waste! Ah well. It wasn’t to be featured in my triumph in any event. Not according to Queen Joan’s messengers. But musn’t keep griping over Her Majesty’s micromanagement. The show must go on!”

Sir Stewart turned back to the knights. Though addressed to his men, his orders seemed more for Isabella’s benefit.

“Well, no harm done, it doesn’t seem. Proceed as discussed, sirs. Escort the lady from her carriage and bring her to the back of the procession. Secure her directly behind my horse. Per Her Majesty’s express instructions, her sister is to enter the city on foot and unrobed. Not the effect I had in mind, but it sends a message of sorts, I suppose. Strip her of her clothes immediately. I wish to leave at once. We must pass through the city gates within the hour if we wish to reach the palace steps by dusk.”

The White Knight turned to go while his men approached the wagon. Isabella watched them in trepidation, trying to process what had happened and what was in store for her. Realizing that she was still holding the carrot, she flung it through the bars in disgust. Suddenly, one of the soldiers halted and called out to his commander.

“What have we here? Sir!”

The knight disappeared beneath the wagon and came up dragging a shifty-eyed boy of twelve or thirteen by the scruff of his neck. It looked to be the boy whose arm Isabella had likely broken with her kick, the one the other urchins had called Charley. Sir Stewart turned back with a sigh.

“They really are like fleas. Crush as many as you like, you’ll never clear the infestation entirely.”

“Cut the rascal’s throat, Sir?” asked the knight.

The boy squirmed under the soldier’s grip but looked more peeved than afraid.

“We done nothing wrong! You actin’ like that’s a good Christian woman you got caged up in there and not Lady Isabella of Aardmore, inn’it? Traitor to the Realm and hagent of Satan besides, I heard. So wus the problem, Sir? Why, we were jus’ defending them innocent young’uns from ‘er magic. She tried to lay curses on us an’ everything! You can’t imagine how afeared we all were!”

Sir Stewart snorted, amused by the boy’s boldness. With the same air nonchalance with which he’d bashed in the head of the youngster’s comrade, the White Knight strolled over and sized the lad up.

“I may have a job for this one. What do you think, boy? Instead of having your throat cut, how’d you like to be in a parade?”

The boy nodded warily.

“Good,” replied Sir Stewart. “Come with me. We’ll have you fitted for something more appropriate to a royal triumph.”

Without warning, he unsheathed his sword and stabbed at the ground. Isabella and the boy both flinched. When he brought the blade back up, impaled upon its tip was the spit-covered vegetable that had been forced up Isabella’s ass.

“If we must march Queen Joan’s trophy through the streets on foot, I daresay we may need to employ the stick as well as the carrot.”

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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 9 – The Motel

Jessica’s butt cheeks slipped frictionlessly against one another as she climbed out of the back seat of the Volvo. The slick sensation on her backside, caused by the handfuls of petroleum jelly that an hour earlier she had let a stranger smear all around and inside her ass, caused Jessica to adopt an awkward, bow-legged gait as she followed her kidnappers (for this was how she was beginning to think of Shannon and the three frat boys who had driven her out to the middle of nowhere and subjected her to repeated degradations) towards the run-down reception building of the seedy motel.

Jessica was still reeling from the revelation that Nick and his pals were not driving her to the cabin owned by the Theta Theta Psi sorority, that she was instead trapped with them all weekend, subject to who-knew-what further torments.

So far that day, Jessica had been forced to submit to three public spankings. She had allowed two strange men at a gas station to fondle her naked breasts. She had taken off all her clothes in front of a roomful war veterans and entertained them by simulating oral sex on an empty beer bottle. What would tomorrow bring? How far would Shannon let these boys take this supposed initiation?

The reception desk was manned by a crusty-looking old man with thick glasses and a thin grey moustache. He looked startled when the five of them crowded in and quickly folded away a magazine that he had been pursuing. Nick approached the desk. He had apparently called ahead, and the hotel manager—O’Reilly Nick was calling him—found their reservation and was shuffling through some paperwork when Jessica noticed that Nick was gesturing towards her.

“ . . . kind of a sorority initiation trip,” Nick was telling the manager. “I just wanted to make sure we could use some of the common areas in case we need to perform some, you know, rituals . . .”

Jessica had gotten so used to the sight of the wooden Theta paddle in Nick’s hand that she had barely noticed that he’d taken it with him to check into the motel. But Mr. O’Reilly noticed, and his eyes wandered from the wooden implement across to where Jessica’s voluptuous figure shuffled nervously by the door. The manager cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Urm, now just what . . . what kind of ‘rituals’ that’d be?” he asked.

“Well, Jessica loves to show off, so we’ve been mainly doing some photo shoots. Couple of live performances. Tell Mr. O’Reilly about the show you put on in Millard, Jess.”

Jessica glanced around the room. Everyone looked at her expectantly. Her first instinct was to shrug silently and look away, but she was terrified that Nick was going to turn this into another scene. What did he want her to say?

“I. . . I danced . . .” she choked out finally.

“What kind of dance, Jess?” Nick coaxed.

“S-strip dance?” Jessica squeaked, hoping this was the answer Nick was fishing for.

Nick laughed.

“Alright. Yeah. A ‘strip dance.’ As you can probably tell, Jessica has some killer tits. Just incredible. You should have seen this roomful of guys go crazy when she took off her shirt and started wiggling them around. Sometimes, though, Jessica gets a little bratty and needs some punishment. Isn’t that right, Jess?”

Jessica looked at the floor. She nodded hesitantly.

“I said ‘isn’t that right, Jess?’”

“Yes . . . sir,” she whispered, hoping not to give Nick any excuse to say she was being uncooperative.

“And how did you get punished after your strip tease?”

“A spanking, sir,” she muttered, her cheeks burning in humiliation.

“Where did you receive this spanking?”

“On the pool table . . .”

Dylan chuckled. Nick grinned too, but then said “no” in a firm voice. Jessica hurriedly corrected herself.

“I mean, on my . . . on my b-bottom, my bare b-bottom?”

“That’s right. Jessica’s naked ass took quite a paddling about an hour ago. You want to see how it’s healing up, Mr. O’Reilly?”

The hotel manager appeared flustered.

“Well, I . . . you know . . .”

“Jessica turn around and pull down your pants and panties,” Nick instructed.

Jessica looked up into the hotel manager’s eyes, pleadingly, hoping for some sign of sympathy, some hint of rescue. But Mr. O’Reilly was busily running his eyes down the contours of the beautiful co-ed’s body, his jaw hanging open.

Not finding any avenue of escape and desperate not to endure another of Nick’s chastisements, Jessica slowly turned around. She looked out the window nervously, but the darkened parking lot appeared to be empty. Choking back a sob, she reached down and unbuttoned her jeans. She slid the zipper down, and, taking a deep breath, she hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her panties and pulled both her jeans and underwear over her ass and down to mid-thigh. Her panties made a soft slurping sound as they were peeled away from the Vaseline that had glued them firmly to Jessica’s skin.

“Hoo . . . hoo, that’s nice . . .” Jessica heard the hotel manager say under his breath.

“Hold your shirt up,” Nick ordered her. “It’s covering some of your behind.”

Wincing, Jessica complied, tugging her blouse up to her belly button and holding it there, letting the old man behind the counter and the rest of the room drink in a long look at her naked bottom. With the faint pink marks that were still visible from her paddling at the VFW and the shiny film of the Vaseline that still coated her cheeks, Jessica’s full, round ass appeared to glow in the motel’s fluorescent light.

“Still looks like you might be a little tender back there, Jess,” Nick said, walking up behind her and, to her dismay, placing a hand on one of her nude butt cheeks and giving it a squeeze.

“Urm, yes . . .” Mr. O’Reilly said, clearing his throat, “I think we can find a place for you folks to do your, urm, rituals . . . shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thanks, Mr. O’Reilly,” said Nick. “I’d love to do a photo shoot out by the pool tomorrow. That’ll be fun, right, Jess? Say, before you pull your pants back up, I wanted to ask this gentleman’s opinion on something. Keep your hands where they are, and I want you to turn around.”

Jessica shuddered, but after a momentary hesitation, she began to shuffle her feet, her jeans, bunched around her knees, restricting the movement of her legs. She shuffled in in a clumsy semi-circle until she was facing the reception desk. Her hands continued to hold the bottom of her blouse around her mid-torso in a white-knuckle grip, making it seem as if she was showing off her naked crotch to the room.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” said Nick, “I’ve seen thicker jungles around a chick’s pubic area. I think this blonde bush of Jessica’s is actually kind of cute . . .”

Then, to Jessica’s horror, Nick reached a hand out towards her exposed vagina. She recoiled, shuffling backwards a step, but at the last moment she fought off the instinct to drop her blouse, to slap his hand away and cover herself. Instead, she steadied herself and froze stock still, unable to process the humiliating invasion that was about to occur.

Nick made no comment about Jessica’s aborted attempt to dodge his touch. He reached out and gave her pubic hair an exploratory brush with his hand, as if testing its softness, before grabbing ahold of a tuft of hair and giving it a light, demonstrative tug.

“. . . But this isn’t the 1970’s, you know what I mean? I think Jessica ought to trim down before we do her modeling shots. What do you think, Mr. O’Reilly? Brazilian? Landing strip? Or maybe just totally shaved?”

“Well, urm . . . that’s a, uh . . . I think- Well, I think she’d look awful sexy just bare, I guess.”

“I like the way you think, sir,” said Nick. “Bare pussy it is, Jess. We’ll pick you up some shaving stuff first thing tomorrow.”

With that, he relinquished his grip on Jessica’s pubes and allowed her to pull her pants back up. Grabbing the room keys from the stunned hotel manager, Nick took Jessica by the elbow and led her out the door.

***

Nick pointed out the rooms. He and Shannon would take 104. Dylan and Matt in 105. Jessica in 106.

Jessica was surprised, grateful even. Since she’d learned the group would be stopping for the night, she’d been speculating with acute trepidation about the sleeping arrangements. That she’d be getting her own room was a relief. Perhaps Nick felt that he couldn’t guarantee her safety for an entire night in a room with the other guys? Her insides convulsed at the thought: was Nick—her tormentor-in-chief—the only thing keeping her from being raped by one of the other two frat boys?

Shannon, looking increasingly unsteady on her feet, retired immediately to her room. The boys walked Jessica over to Room 106, Matt chivalrously carrying her suitcase.

After they’d escorted her into her room and Matt had set her suitcase down, Jessica regarded the three young men awkwardly, desperately hoping that they would now leave her alone for the night, allowing her some time to think over her situation. Instead, Matt and Dylan hung around expectantly in the doorway while Nick strolled around the hotel room, flipping on lights and generally taking in the space as if evaluating the quality of the establishment.

“Not the Ritz, but it’ll do for the night, right Jess?” he said.

“Y-yes, sir,” Jessica said, fixing her eyes on the shag carpeting at her feet.

“Well, we’ll let you get some rest. We want you looking your best for your modeling shots tomorrow,” Nick said.

Jessica nodded, her heart racing at the thought that the solitude she craved might be within sight. Nick turned and appeared to be heading for the door. He picked up the TV remote as he passed it, and casually turned on the television sitting on the dresser. The speakers kicked in at a jarring volume, but. Nick set the remote down without adjusting the sound.

“Before you go to bed, though, I wanted to give you one more test of obedience. Just to see what you’ve learned today. Don’t worry. It’ll be quick.”

Jessica gulped, keeping her eyes on the floor. What was he going to make her do? Pull out her tits again for the private viewing pleasure of his horny friends? Bend over so he could spank her again? Whatever it was, she prayed it really would be over quickly.

“All I want you to do is put your blindfold back on and just kneel down on the floor right where you are,” Nick told her, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the blaring television.

From out of his pocket, Nick pulled the cloth blindfold that Jessica had been forced to wear when they first set out on this terrible road trip. Jessica just stood frozen in place as Nick walked up behind her and placed the blindfold over her eyes, tying it firmly behind her head. She heard the door creak and slam shut, and she knew that she was alone, completely blind and helpless, in this tiny hotel room with three men.

“Ok, kneel down right there.”

Nick pressed down on Jessica’s shoulders, guiding her gently to the floor. Trembling, she kneeled down on the carpet, her butt coming to rest on her calves. Nick placed a hand under her chin and guided her face upwards so that she was looking blindly up towards the ceiling.

“There you go. Now that’s all you have to do. Just hold that position for a minute or two. Don’t move. I’ll tell you when you can stand up.”

She could feel someone step up next to her, and she heard some rustling around, though it was tough to figure out what was going on against the noise of the television. Jessica braced herself for something awful to happen, for someone to grab her or tear at her clothes. But nothing happened.

Jessica’s fear started to give way to confusion. What seemed like a minute or two passed, while Jessica simply knelt on the floor expectantly, staring into the blackness of the blindfold and listening to the sounds from the television. Her legs began to fall asleep, but she forced herself to maintain the position that Nick had instructed.

Then, suddenly, something wet struck Jessica’s cheek. One drop, then two, then a third hitting her on the side of her nose. She heard someone let out a short grunt.

“Don’t move, Jessica,” Nick was telling her, “Don’t move an inch out of that position if you don’t want to be punished.”

Jessica felt something ooze its way off of her nose and roll down her face towards the side of her mouth. Her stomach dropped. What had just happened? Then a sickening thought occurred to her. Was this substance . . . was it semen? Had she just let one of these boys cum on her face?

Even if she hadn’t been afraid to disobey Nick’s instructions, Jessica would have been too shocked to move. She maintained her kneeling position on the floor, looking upwards, nauseatingly aware of the sticky substance clinging to the side of her pretty face.

Jessica’s ears honed in on a faint, rhythmic sound of which she’d only been dimly conscious before, and she was suddenly certain that one of the other boys had begun masturbating next to her, his naked penis probably hovering right next to her face. A moment later removed all doubt, as suddenly a new glob of wetness, this one much more voluminous than the last, struck Jessica on her forehead. Another drop hit her just below the blindfold and began to run down her cheek, only to be joined by yet another massive splotch splattering goo across her upper lip.

The scent of the ejaculate assaulted Jessica’s nostrils, making her stomach heave. She worried she might simply vomit right there, but, aside from some mild trembling, she maintained her position, knowing that there was still one more unseen man who expected to relieve himself across her face.

It seemed like a lifetime that Jessica knelt there, feeling the semen congeal on her cheeks, staring upwards as if waiting eagerly for her innocent visage to be despoiled once more. Finally, though, the third wave of cum rained down on her, this time hitting her square in the mouth. Jessica squeezed her lips tight, desperate to keep any of the noxious fluid from seeping inside. Another glob struck her mouth. Then another on the chin. Then a long, sticky string that hit the corner of her mouth and stretched down to her jaw.

There was a moment of terrible stillness. Jessica maintained her subservient position, her blindfolded, cum-splattered face staring mutely upwards, her jaw trembling beneath her fiercely pinched lips. Jessica imagined the boys zipping themselves up, perhaps smirking to one another and pointing at her shameful, semen-stained appearance, perhaps . . . oh god . . . perhaps taking pictures of her, preserving her humiliation on film.

Finally, the television was switched off, plunging the room into silence.  The door creaked open.

“Hope you enjoyed your nightcap, Jess,” she heard Nick say from the doorway, “Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut. Jessica sat frozen in place, unable to process, as the cum crawled down her cheeks.

The Initiation: Chapter 7 – The Restaurant

As the countryside flew by the Volvo’s rear windows, Jessica kept her gaze locked mutely on her hands clutching one another tensely in her lap, unable to think of anything beyond the horror of what had happened at the truck stop.

She played it over and over in her mind, wondering whether she should or could have done something differently. She had tried to enter this initiation weekend with an open attitude, prepared to do things she wouldn’t normally do, to suffer some embarrassment or discomfort as part of the Theta hazing ritual. But not this. Being forced to let strange men touch her naked boobs? Having her sorority sister’s boyfriend forcibly yank her across his knee, pull down her pants and underwear, and spank her bare ass while everyone watched and took pictures? No. This was too much.

Could it conceivably be that this was part of the Theta hazing? That all the girls went through this as Shannon and Nick insisted? It seemed impossible. Yet, as wrong as all this felt, as persistent as the voice in Jessica’s head had become, telling her that she needed to escape, abandon her ambitions of becoming a Theta, just get home, maybe even report what had happened to her, she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate that possibility.

Part of it was probably that she couldn’t let go of her mother’s dream of having her join the sorority, it was too deeply ingrained in her. If she stopped cooperating or demanded that they turn the car around immediately, then if nothing else her hopes of joining Theta Theta Psi were over, and despite everything, being part of that exclusive club still meant something to Jessica.

Part of it was also what Shannon had hissed to her just before shoving her back into the Volvo: “You wash out if you want to, Rushie, but if you ever tell anyone about any of this, I swear to god, no one will ever speak to you again. You will be a complete social outcast for the rest of your University career. And not only that but I will personally claw those pretty blue eyes out. Bet your worthless life on it, Rushie.”

Jessica looked up from her lap to sneak a look at the back of Shannon’s head. After the burst of manic energy at the beginning of the road trip, Shannon had become a relatively silent presence, deferring almost entirely to Nick. The whispered warning was practically the first thing she had directed towards Jessica in hours. She had also become increasingly nervous and twitchy, constantly rolling down the window to light up another cigarette.

This passivity did nothing to lessen Jessica’s fear of the black-haired girl, her silence no more an indication of harmlessness than a coiled snake. Yet Shannon’s threats were still only part of what kept Jessica frozen in her place, locked helplessly in the back seat of this moving vehicle between two sweaty  frat boys.

Part of it was also that she felt a strange sense of guilt at what had happened. Why didn’t she just say no when Nick asked her to open her shirt? Why didn’t she slap that creepy man’s hand away when he began to caress her breasts? Why didn’t she physically fight, scream for help, when Nick dragged her over to the bench for her spanking?

Is that what people would say if they found out? If Jessica told? Would they say she cooperated, that she must have been stupid to let things go as far as they did? Or maybe they would say that she liked it. That she welcomed the attention. Jessica shuddered.

And then there were the pictures. Thankfully, Nick had turned down Randal’s request for copies. Even when Randal offered to pay, Nick had just laughed and told him the photos weren’t for sale, giving Jessica some hope that he might keep his promise not to share them with the outside world. If she ran away or stopped cooperating, though, everyone at school would see them, not just photos of her flashing her tits, but video of her bent over the hood of Nick’s car getting her ass paddled, video of her sprawled across Nick’s lap bare-bottomed. How could she look anyone in the eye again, knowing they had all seen her in these humiliating positions?

Her only hope, she told herself, was to stick the weekend out and pray that these boys kept those videos to themselves, just as they had apparently kept secret the incriminating evidence of the other Theta girls’ hazings.

“Here, next exit.”

Jessica was pulled from her brooding by the realization that Shannon was apparently preparing to pull off the highway at Nick’s direction. They had turned off the Interstate several miles back and had been cruising up a two lane state highway approaching a town called Millard. Not for the first time on this trip, Jessica found herself wishing she had a better grasp of local geography. She had no idea where they were or how far they might be from the Theta’s cabin in Mount Greenwood.

“If you take Main up a few blocks, there’s this steakhouse kind of place,” Nick was telling Shannon as the Volvo paused momentarily at the stop sign at the end of the highway offramp, “we’ll grab some grub and I’m gonna give Jeff a call.”

What were they doing pulling off in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere?, Jessica thought. Who was Jeff? Had the others all discussed this beforehand without her? Nick turned around as if sensing her confusion.

“We’re gonna pull off for an early dinner, Jess,” he told her, “my cousin lives around here, so I figured I’d stop by and see him as long as we’re driving right by. Used to visit Millard almost every summer growing up. Real shit town. Colton’s up here on Main and 3rd cooks a decent steak, though. You’ll like it.”

***

Colton’s could easily have been mistaken for a renovated Sizzler or an Olive Garden. With its maroon, vinyl-upholstered booths and wood-paneled walls, the restaurant had a slightly old-fashioned but otherwise completely non-descript feel.  Jessica sat across from Dylan and Matt, waiting anxiously for Shannon to return from the bathroom.

After they had pulled up to the restaurant and piled out of the car, stretching out their trip stiffness, Nick had counted out a handful of twenties (the same ones, Jessica assumed, that he had collected from the men at the truck stop in exchange for letting them touch her breasts) and thrust them over to Shannon for the meal. Then, as an apparent afterthought, he had reached back into the car and handed Shannon Jessica’s pledge paddle.

“Just so we’re clear,” he had said to Jessica, “Shannon’s in charge of you until I get back. Do what she says or you know what will happens, right?”

“Yes sir,” Jessica had finally responded when it became clear that the question was not rhetorical.

To Jessica’s embarrassment, therefore, Shannon had taken the paddle with her when they had entered the restaurant, leaving Nick in the parking lot on his phone. The entrance had turned out to be a false start, since the hostess had refused to seat them. While she had given Shannon’s wooden implement merely a half-curious, half-disapproving look, she had been unable to abide the provocative condition of Jessica’s braless cleavage.

“I’m sorry, Honey,” she had said with a critical cock of her eyebrows, “ I know that’s probably how you college girls dress these days, but this is a family restaurant, and we got a dress code.”

Of course, Shannon had played it off like the fashion choice had been Jessica’s and had sent Jessica back to the car in shame to put on her bra. This, of course, had necessitated asking for her underwear back from Nick, who, to her surprise, put up no argument, apparently too engrossed in his phone conversation to bother to humiliate her further.

Jessica had grabbed her bra off the dashboard, and, as discreetly as she could, ducked down in the passenger’s seat to quickly change her top.

Breasts newly resecured, she had braved the hostess’s judgmental looks and reached the table where Dylan and Matt were waiting for her, Shannon apparently having slipped off to the ladies’ room.

When Shannon returned, she appeared reenergized and immediately flagged the waitress down, demanding a vodka tonic. When the drink arrived, Shannon immediately pushed them to order. Shannon ordered a steak, medium-rare for herself, but, when the waitress turned to Jessica, Shannon cut her off.

“She’ll be sharing with me. Don’t want you porking out, Rushie. Not when you’ve still got so much modeling to do.”

Jessica hadn’t eaten since that morning, and, though she had been too distracted to take much note until now, she suddenly realized how hungry she was. She hoped that Shannon was serious about letting her eat some of her meal and wouldn’t simply starve her.

The food arrived surprisingly quickly, just enough time for Shannon to knock back her cocktail and order another. The waitress set down a plate in front of Shannon with a large juicy-looking cut of steak surrounded by green beans and mashed potatoes. Jessica stared enviously as everyone else began digging in while she could only stare at the empty space in front of her.

Finally, after Shannon had apparently eaten her fill, she turned to Jessica.

“Aw, is little Jessica hungy?” she cooed in a baby-talk voice, “Ok, open wide for num nums”

Shannon cut off a small piece of meat, speared it with her fork, and thrust it towards Jessica’s face. Jessica stared at it for a moment, considering reaching for the fork, but Shannon’s game was clear. She wanted to humiliate Jessica by feeding her like a baby. Unsure what else to do and enticed by the greasy morsel hovering in front of her nose, Jessica finally opened her mouth, wrapped her lips around Shannon’s fork and pulled the meat off. Dylan snickered and pulled out the camcorder.

“Well? All done?” said Shannon.

The tiny bite of steak had only increased the rumbling in Jessica’s stomach. She gave the food on Shannon’s plate a desperate, sideways look and shook her head.

“Well, ask the right way and you might get a little more.”

Jessica cleared her throat.

“May I have some more?” she asked under her breath, “Please? Ma’am?”

Shannon smiled and began cutting another piece. Piece by piece, she inserted bites of steak directly into Jessica’s mouth while Jessica’s hands rested helplessly on the seat beside her. Dylan kept the camera trained diligently on Jessica’s face as she chewed and swallowed and pliantly accepted another offering.

As Jessica’s feeding continued, Shannon began toying with her, pulling the fork away at the last minute so that Jessica’s mouth closed around empty air, moving the meat suddenly so as to dab the sides of Jessica’s lips with grease. Eventually, the area around Jessica’s mouth became spotted all around with meat juice, some of it running in drips down to her chin. It was at this point that Shannon, running low on steak, moved on to the mashed potatoes

Dipping a spoon into the white mush, Shannon measured out a heaping scoop and sent it careening towards Jessica’s face. It was a huge mouthful, and Jessica, no longer famished, was reluctant to open her mouth. Yet, she knew that refusing would surely make the situation worse. Unenthusiastically, she parted her lips and allowed the spoon inside, trying her best to suck off the entire helping of potatoes.

Before Jessica had had a chance to process that bite, Shannon had scooped up another load and was shoving it in her face. Jessica tried her best to chew and swallow quickly, but Shannon was pushing the spoon insistently against her lips. Jessica tried to take a bite, despite her mouth still being partially full. It was a messy bite, and globs of potato clung to her lips.

Jessica began to reach for a napkin but Shannon told her harshly to keep her hands where they were. Suddenly, another spoonful was knocking against her lips. Jessica tried desperately to clear her mouth to make way, but Shannon, appearing to grow impatient, kept jabbing the spoon towards Jessica’s lips, smearing mashed potato all around in the process.

When Shannon scooped up yet another mound, there was no pretense at all. She simply began wiping the spoon on Jessica’s cheeks and chin, sticking dollops of white goop to wherever they would stick on the coed’s pretty young face. For good measure, Shannon smeared some potato on Jessica’s nose and dabbed some on her eyebrow, then leaned back giggling to admire her artwork. It was probably the most happy Jessica had seen her since the trip began. Meanwhile, of course, Dylan continued to film and Matt watched with a nervous grin on his face.

Jessica’s head dipped in indignity, and, as it did, a large chunk of mashed potato dropped from her cheek and fell unceremoniously directly into her cleavage, which, due to the missing blouse button, remained exposed.

Suddenly, just as Jessica was considering whether to ask Shannon for permission to wipe her face off, Nick arrived. He was accompanied by two men, both around Nick’s age or perhaps slightly older, both with crew cuts, both noticeably muscled. Nick stopped in surprise when he saw Jessica’s face, then smiled broadly. Jessica looked up helplessly and Nick and the two strange men, conscious of the comical image she must cut, with her face caked in beef grease and mashed potatoes .

“What happened here, Jess?” asked Nick.

“Dumb bitch is the sloppiest eater I’ve ever seen,” cackled Shannon, and, for good measure, flicked a spoonful of potatoes towards Jessica, which splattered on her neck and rolled down to join the rest of the mush that had oozed into her cleavage.

“Well, sorry she’s such a mess, guys, but this is Jessica, the chick I was telling you about. Jess, this is my cousin Jeff and this is his pal Alberto.”

Jessica swallowed hard and managed a meek “hi.”

“Jeff and Alberto served in Afghanistan together,” Nick continued. “Alberto here actually just got back a couple weeks ago from . . . Faro?”

“Farah,” said Alberto.

“Farah,” Nick corrected. “Wild, huh? Anyway, there’s a VFW hall here in Millard they hang out at sometimes, and they’ve invited us to stop by for a couple of drinks before we hit the road again. How’s that sound?”

Before anyone could answer, the waitress stepped up beside the three men to check on the table. Seeing Jessica’s food-splattered face, she stopped short.

“Why don’t I just get you kids the check? . . .”

The Initiation: Chapter 6 – The Truck Stop

Jessica watched her bra slide across the dashboard as the car rounded a bend in the highway. She blushed anew, unable to believe that Nick would just place it up there in front of the windshield for all the world to see. Having such a private object taken out of her control and then displayed in such a public way felt deeply violating.

Once they got to the cabin she’d feel less vulnerable, Jessica told herself. She’d be reunited with the rest of the pledges, be less the sole object of humiliation. And whatever embarrassing rituals the Theta initiation had in store, Jessica was sure that Eliza and the other older girls would keep things under control.

Here in this car, though, driving further and further out into the middle of nowhere, alone with Shannon and Nick and his two leering henchmen, Jessica had never felt so helpless. How far could things go? Nick had threatened to pull her pants down and spank her naked bottom. Would he really do that? Would Jessica let him? It was unimaginable, but what choice would she have?

Jessica could still feel the sting on her ass from the paddling she had received. For the last hour, she had kept her eyes down, hoping to be ignored, and, for the most part, it had worked. She could still sense the pervy stares of Dylan and Matt on her large boobs, which still hung braless inside her damaged blouse and bounced around freely whenever the car hit a bump. But Nick kept his eyes mostly on the empty landscape passing by his window.

When Nick instructed Shannon to stop at the truck stop up ahead, Jessica was grateful. She had needed to pee for a while now but hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to herself by mentioning it. Shannon pulled off at the highway exit that Nick indicated and drove up to one of the eight gas pumps that fronted the truck stop’s modestly-sized convenience store. J.T.’s PIT STOP it said in white block letters over the door.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Jessica said to no one in particular as Shannon shut the Volvo’s engine off, and Matt rolled out of the car to man the pump. She was about to slide over the seat that Matt had vacated when Nick turned around to look at her.

“Well, then you’d better ask permission, hadn’t you?” he said.

“Can I go use the bathroom?” Jessica mumbled.

“’May I,’” Nick corrected.

“And address him as ‘Sir,’” Shannon added, rummaging through her purse,  “where’s your god damn respect?”

Jessica took a deep breath.

“May I go use the bathroom . . . Sir?”

Dylan snickered.

“Go ahead, Jess,” Nick said, grinning, “wouldn’t want you to piss yourself.”

Before exiting the car, Jessica looked down at her blouse. It was a trashy sight. Her nipples stuck out visibly against the thin material, and, with the missing button, she was displaying a provocative amount of cleavage. She considered asking Nick for her bra back, but, realizing that she would have to change in front of everyone and knowing it was probably futile anyway, she decided she would just have to enter the store braless.

The parking lot that wrapped around the convenience store was empty but for a single blue pickup truck, and Jessica did a doubletake as she passed it on her way inside. She remembered the similar vehicle that she had seen drive by from her position bent over the hood of the Volvo. Could it be the same one?

Her fears were confirmed the moment she stepped inside the convenience store. Standing in front of the register, counting out change, was a heavyset man in his early thirties. Jessica recognized him immediately. He had driven by while Nick was paddling Jessica’s ass by the side of the road and had made brief eye contact with her while she was enduring her degrading punishment. When Jessica walked through the door, he looked up and his eyes widened.

Jessica stopped in her tracks. She wanted to run from the store.

The cashier must have noticed her distress. “Help you with something, Miss?” he said.

The cashier was in his early twenties and sporting a scraggly blonde goatee and a black NASCAR cap. His eyes drifted down to Jessica’s boobs, which threatened to spill out of her damaged blouse at any time. Jessica blushed under the stares of the two men.

“Um . . . bathroom?” she asked.

“Right back that way,” said the cashier.

Jessica hurried off in the direction the cashier had indicated, trying to ignore the stares that followed her every step of the way.

The bathroom was not as clean as she might have liked, but It provided the relief Jessica sought. She emerged a few minutes later, hoping the man from the blue pickup would be gone and preparing to blow past the cashier as quickly as possible. Instead, Jessica saw to her consternation that Nick had entered the store and was leaning on the counter, conversing with both the cashier and the portly pickup driver.

When they saw Jessica, their conversation stopped abruptly.

“Hey, Jess. You have a good pee?” Nick called out. “Listen, Shannon’s pulling the car around. Why don’t you join the others around the back of the store. I was thinking we’d do a quick photo shoot before we leave. I’ll be out in a second.”

Jessica didn’t like the sound of this at all.

“I was just telling these guys about your modeling , and James here says it’s no problem if we want to snap a few pictures around back. Right, James?”

The cashier shook his head and said that would be no problem at all.

Not knowing what else to say, Jessica silently brushed past the three men and exited the store. The car had indeed moved. Jessica walked around to the back of the truck stop, her heart pounding as she wondered what might be in store.

Next to a large propane tank, Jessica found Dylan and Matt sitting on a pair of picnic tables, decrepit metal and plastic models that had presumably been set up out back to give travelers a place to eat their slim jims in leisure before continuing on their journeys. The two frat boys were fiddling with the setting on their cameras. Shannon leaned against the car several dozen feet away, indulging in another cigarette at a safe distance from the propane tank.

Jessica had a sickening feeling in her stomach, thinking about the “photo shoot” that Nick had mentioned. She was certain that she was about to be forced to expose her breasts again, to allow these boys to take pictures of her flashing her naked boobs against the backdrop of this filthy truck stop.

But what difference did it make, she tried to tell herself. They already had plenty of compromising photos of her. What were a few more? And if she didn’t cooperate . . . No, best not to think about that.

“Good news, gang,” Nick announced himself as he came around the corner.

Jessica turned. A torrent of anxiety flooded through her system. Nick was not alone. Following along self-consciously at his heels were the truck stop cashier and the man with the blue pickup.

“I talked James here into comping our gas if we’d let him sit in on Jessica’s photo shoot,” Nick continued. “Oh, and this is Randal. I didn’t want him to feel left out.”

“Hey, y’all,” said Randal softly, with a cautious look around.

“Now Jessica here had some trouble following instructions earlier this morning. But she’s catching on quick. You’re going follow instructions perfectly for this photo shoot. Right, Jess?”

Jessica looked from Nick to the boys on the picnic tables to the two strangers, and she tried to swallow the knot that had crept its way up her throat.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Yes what?” Nick corrected her.

For a moment, Jessica didn’t know what he was getting at, but then she corrected herself hurriedly.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Tell these guys what will happen if you’re disobedient or disrespectful,” Nick prodded.

Jessica cast her eyes downward and shook her head silently, as if trying to shake loose a cloud of shame.

“A sp—. . . a s-spanking,” she managed to choke out.

James and Randal gave each other a look of disbelief. Randal began to grin.

“That’s right. A bare bottom spanking. Right in front of everyone. So you’re going to cooperate and strike the poses I tell you, aren’t you?”

Jessica nodded.

“Alright. Let’s get started. Dylan, grab the SLR. Matt, you’re on video. Jessica, I want you against this wall here.”

Jessica backed up against the white concrete wall that Nick had indicated. Matt had fired up one of the camcorders and was panning up and down her body. Dylan immediately began snapping photos. The two men from the truck stop watched from behind them in fascination, and even Shannon rejoined the group to regard Jessica with a cross-armed sneer. They surrounded Jessica in a crude semi-circle, pinning her to the wall with their gazes.

Nick began directing her like a fashion photographer, telling her to adopt poses, which Dylan would then capture on film. Hands on your hips. No, sassier. Ok, now purse your lips. Blow a kiss to the camera. Now, turn around.

Her reactions were awkward and hesitant at first, but Jessica tried her best to comply.

Put your palms flat against the wall. Look back over your shoulder. Smile.

“Smile, Jess!” Nick insisted.

This direction was perhaps the hardest of all for Jessica, but she did her best, twisting her mouth and raising her eyebrows in an expression that she hoped approximated cheerfulness.

That’s good, Jess. Great. Keep smiling. Stick your butt out a little more. Keep looking over your shoulder. Now give me sultry. Purse your lips, raise an eyebrow. Good. Turn around again. I want you to put your hands on your knees. Arch your back. Lean towards the camera. Come on, lean down further. Back straight. Further. Chin up. And let’s see that smile.

Jessica felt her lips trembling with the effort to maintain a smile as she bent forward, causing her blouse to hang loosely beneath her torso and her breasts to spill forward lewdly.

“That’s good, Jess,” Nick coaxed her. “Now straighten up, and I want you to start unbuttoning your shirt. One button at a time.”

There it was. Jessica had known it was coming. Trembling, trying to ignore all the eyes and camera lenses that were trained on her, she reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse. Ashley went through this too, she told herself, and she made it out ok. Just relax and be strong.

When she’d freed the last button, her blouse fell open, and Jessica’s nude breasts came into view. At Nick’s insistence, she pulled the blouse open wider, exposing her ample tits to their fullest.

“Aw shit, now that’s nice,” she heard the cashier say under his breath. “That’s gotta be the nicest tits I ever saw.”

Nick had her go through some of the same poses with her shirt open. She put her hands on her hips. She blew kisses to the camera. She bent forward so that her breasts dangled loosely beneath her. Always smiling. Smiling or pouting seductively.

That’s great, Nick was telling her, now I want you to cup your breasts. Both hands. Go on. Put your hands on the underside of your boobs. No further down, underneath, so we can still see your nipples. That’s it. Now lift them up. More. Hold them up towards the camera, like you’re offering them to us.

Jessica’s false smile slipped briefly as she let out a sob of shame. She could just imagine how degrading these pictures would look.

Keep your right hand on your tit. Sweep your left hand through your hair. Smile. Hold that. Good. Now I want you to take that left hand, slip it inside the front of your jeans.

Jessica hesitated, but, at a stern look from Nick, she complied, sliding her left hand inside the waistband of her jeans as her right hand continued to clutch her boob. To her shame, Nick instructed her to hold that pose. Dylan and Matt continued to record her from all angles, while Nick stepped aside to talk quietly to the two men from the truck stop.

“Ok, good news, Jess,” Nick said when he turned his attention back to the disgraced girl with one hand down the front of her pants and the other on her naked tit. “These guys are gonna kick in a few extra bucks for our road trip. But here’s the thing: they want to cop a quick feel.”

Jessica was stupefied. She began to cover herself and to step backwards, only to realize with horror that she had nowhere to go, pinned as she was against the concrete wall.

“No,” she said. “Please, I’ll take—take some more pictures. But no—no touching . . .”

“Aw, come on, Jess,” replied Nick. “Quit being such a drama queen. It’s just a quick feel. These guys are big admirers of those gorgeous jugs of yours and they just want to, you know, see what they feel like. Just your breasts. I’m not gonna let them finger you or anything.”

Jessica gasped.

“I promise it will be real brief. Then we’ll get going. You’re getting off easy, you know. It’s just these two. When Ashley did this, she got her tits fondled by like fifteen dudes.”

“Please . . .” Jessica said softly, shaking her head.

“Put your hands on top of your head,” Nick insisted, “and stay perfectly still. You move or you make a big fuss or you take your hands off your head even for a moment and you know what the consequences are. I’m through screwing around here.”

She looked around at the audience who surrounded her. Seeing no avenue of escape, she gulped back a sob and placed her shaking hands on top of her head. Nick beckoned for the two men to approach.

The blonde cashier looked back at Nick as if making sure that this was truly ok. Then, haltingly, he reached out a hand and placed it experimentally on Jessica’s nude breast. Jessica shuddered but kept her hands on top of her head.

Growing more bold, the cashier’s touch drifted around the circumference of Jessica’s boob. His caress became a grasp, and he gave her breast a firm squeeze. Then, he grabbed her other breast with his other hand and began to fondle both her tits at once, taking a more and more confident command of her naked breasts.

Jessica winced whenever the cashier gave her boobs a particularly rough squeeze. Looking off to the side, she found herself looking into Matt’s camera, a reminder that every moment of her shameful public groping was being documented. She shut her eyes against the tears she felt welling up.

Eventually, the men traded off, and Randal, the stocky man who’d seen her getting paddled by the side of the road, assumed control of Jessica’s naked tits. Having witnessed the treatment his companion had already given this girl without apparent repercussion, Randal was less timid, grabbing both of Jessica’s breasts immediately and proceeding to manipulate them in opposite, circular motions, exploring them with his fingers as he did so.

“Oh my Lord,” he said to Jessica, causing her to recoil from his terrible breath. “You have got some damn fine titties, Sugar. They real?”

“Well, Jessica?” Nick said. “Answer. Are your tits real? Or have you had some work done?”

Jessica gave a jerky shake of her head, trying not to cry.

“Th-they’re real,” she whispered.

Randal didn’t appear to be listening, as he had moved on to Jessica’s nipples, which puckered out like perfectly proportioned little pink wine corks from her tiny round areoles. Randal caressed them. Then he flicked them. Then he pinched them.

Jessica let out an involuntary squeak of pain and surprise, causing several of her observers to laugh. When was this torment going to end, she wondered helplessly.

Suddenly, a voice made everyone turn their heads.

“Excuse me? Do any of you work here? I just need to—”  A middle-aged woman had just rounded the corner. Trailing behind her was a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen.

When the woman saw Jessica—standing topless against the wall, an older man fondling her breasts while several onlookers videotaped—she stopped dead. Jessica gasped and covered her chest, pushing away Randal’s exploratory hands in the process.

“Oh!” said the woman in surprise, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll just—Excuse me.”

She roughly grabbed her preteen son and hustled him quickly away, though he managed a wide-eyed gape back at Jessica before disappearing around the corner.

There was a moment of tense silence, punctuated by the sound of an engine starting and a car peeling away.

“Shit,” Matt laughed, “gave that kid something to remember.”

Nick, however, was not laughing. Randal stood aside as the tall frat boy approached Jessica, who was still protecting her chest with folded arms. Nick placed the back of his hand gently against the side of her cheek and gave her a look of concern.

“Aw, Jess, what happened?” he asked. “I thought we were clear on your instructions . . .”

Jessica’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t mean . . . She hadn’t intended to drop her arms! It was an involuntary reaction to that woman’s unexpected intrusion! That wasn’t enough for . . . He wouldn’t . . .

“It looks to me like you need another lesson in obedience,” Nick said. “What do you think, guys? You want to watch how Jessica gets punished when she doesn’t do like she’s told?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said Randal, nearly salivating. “You gotta give her spanking. You been a bad girl, haven’t ya, Sugar?”

Jessica was nearly quaking.

Nick walked cooly over to the picnic table and sat down.

“Come here, Jessica,” he said.

Jessica stared in disbelief.

“Now!” Nick barked.

Somehow, Jessica forced her frozen legs to move one after another, and she walked stiffly over to the picnic tables, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. She stood in front of Nick. Her eyes were growing watery, clouding her vision.

“Unbutton your jeans,” Nick commanded.

“P-please,” Jessica pleaded, “Not . . .”

“Unbutton your jeans.” Nick said again, “I said you weren’t getting your next spanking over your pants, and I meant it. Now, you cooperate, and this will be over soon. We’ll all leave together for the cabin, and no one will ever see those pictures we just took. Put up a fuss, and we’ll strand you here, and by the time you get back to campus jessicasboobs.com is going to be the most popular site on the Internet. You want that or are you going unbutton your jeans?”

Jessica gulped at Nick’s threat. Then, hands trembling, she reached down and popped open the button of her jeans. Growing impatient, Nick reached over and pushed her hand aside. He grabbed her zipper and pulled it slowly down, revealing the white cotton of her panties. Then, without warning, he grabbed the sides of her jeans and began to nudge them downward. Jessica could do nothing but stare down at Nick in shock as he tugged her jeans down off of her hips, bit by bit exposing her white-panty-clad ass to the group gathered around her. When her jeans were below her ass cheeks, he stopped.

“Over my knee,” Nick commanded.

When Jessica hesitated, Nick reached up to grab her hand and pull her towards him. With his other hand, he guided her across his lap. Jessica fell forward, and she stretched out her arms to steady herself, causing her naked breasts to swing free of her protective stance. Nick continued to bend her over until her full weight was resting on her torso, sprawled out over his thighs.

To maintain her balance, Jessica was forced to rest her outstretched arms but rest them on the asphalt by Nick’s feet. Nick adjusted her position on his lap until her tiptoes barely touched the ground and her ass was the highest point on her body.

Jessica’s father had taken her over his knee to spank her like this, but not since she was six or seven. Behind the hair that had fallen into her face, Jessica wept openly at the humiliation of having Nick force her to pull her pants down, of having him prepare to punish her like a little girl.

Suddenly, the assault began. Nick brought his open palm down hard on Jessica’s panty-clad bottom. Then he did it again and again. The blows stung, the more so since Jessica’s butt was still sore from the paddling it had received on the roadside.

The spanking continued. Jessica kicked her legs out behind her, but her movement was restricted by her jeans, which were bunched up around her thighs. The slaps of Nick’s palm pummeled Jessica’s ass, striking one butt cheek then the other, until suddenly he stopped.

“Ok, Jess,” she heard him say, “It’s time for me to pull your panties down. You ready? Dylan, you zoomed in?”

Jessica let out a wet sob of humiliation, feeling utterly helpless as, to her horror, she felt Nick’s fingers slip under the waistband of her underwear. With a firm tug, Nick slowly peeled Jessica’s white panties down over her bottom.

“Oh shit,” Randal said in appreciation as Jessica’s luscious naked butt cheeks, glowing pink from their punishment, rose to view.

Nick tugged Jessica’s panties down until they rested at the top of her thighs, just above her jeans. He adjusted the stance of his knees, hoisting Jessica’s nude ass more prominently into the air, the highest peak on the pretty feminine form spilling awkwardly over his lap.

Nick gently placed his open palm against her naked bottom in an exploratory caress, appreciating the heat her spanking had generated. Jessica cringed at the uninvited intimacy. That this frat boy had the power to run his hands over whatever private areas of her unclothed body he wished without the slightest input from her, it was almost too much to process.

“Judging from how red Jessica’s ass is getting, I’d say she’s learning her lesson,” Nick said, continuing to gently rub the pink mounds of the shapely female buttocks draped enticingly over his knee. “But I think a few minutes of spanking on the bare will help drive the point home. Don’t you, Jess?”

“No-o . . .” Jessica moaned wretchedly. She heard one of the boys laugh, apparently amused that she had bothered to answer her tormentor’s question.

Just then, she felt the first slap on her naked bottom. Without her panties to mute the blows, the percussive pops of skin striking skin echoed more loudly and brought with them a more acute sting.  Again and again, Nick smacked Jessica’s ass. When she began to squirm, her bottom twisting this way and that in a futile attempt to evade Nick’s hand, Nick held tight to her hip, pinning her firmly down over his knee.

Finally, with two last hard swats, Nick brought the spanking to an end. He eased his grasp on Jessica’s waist and allowed her to stand. Jessica nearly toppled over trying to lift herself off of Nick’s lap, but, with Nick grabbing her hand for support, she was able to right herself.

As soon as she was upright, Jessica grabbed for her panties and began to pull them up, but she was stopped by Nick’s voice.

“Nuh uh uh, Jess . . . Did I tell you to pull your pants back up yet?”

Sniffling, Jessica shook her head and reluctantly relinquished her grasp on her underwear. Instead, her hand drifted in front of her crotch to shield her blonde bush from view, while her other hand flew up to cover her exposed breasts. She lifted her moist eyes to take stock of the many witnesses to her indignity: the cashier, twisting his cap in his hands and gaping at her, Randal, grinning ear to ear, his eyes locked firmly on the region below her waist, Matt and Dylan, both circling around for the best angle to capture her degradation on film, and Shannon, regarding her with something halfway between an amused smirk and a disgusted sneer.

Nick stepped up beside her and gently pushed her hair away from her face. He placed a hand under her chin and stroked the side of her cheek sympathetically with his thumb. He pulled a tissue from his shirt pocket and dabbed at the dampness around her eyes.

“There now, you’re ok. it’s all over,” he cooed reassuringly to her, “You did real good. I think you’re learning discipline after all. Now, just come stand over here, facing the wall, and I want you to think about your lesson.”

Nick took Jessica by the elbow and led her back to the concrete wall where she had been forced to display her breasts. Her jeans still bunched up around her knees and her underwear stretched around her thighs, Jessica moved with an absurd, humiliating waddle as Nick dragged her along. As she shuffled and stumbled towards the wall, her pants and panties slid further down her legs.

Nick positioned her facing the wall and directed her to place her hands on the top of her head.  Jessica’s jeans and panties drifted down to her ankles, resting in sad pools around her sneakers, exposing her long smooth legs from her calves all the way up to her apple-red butt cheeks.

There was a moment of silence in which the men drank in the sight of Jessica’s nude ass, glowing like a neon sign, while Jessica drowned in the suffocating fullness of her humiliation, dominated and exposed, forced to face the corner like a naughty child, her pants pulled down, the consequences of her spanking placed on public display.

“Ok, Jess,” Nick said finally, “are you going to be a good girl for the rest of the trip?”

Jessica swallowed hard, not sure if she could force words from her clenched diaphragm.

“Ye-es . . .” she managed to squeak. Then, desperate for Nick to bring this horrible episode to an end, she added a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

“What have you learned?”

Jessica shut her eyes, momentarily unable to bring herself to give the demeaning answer she knew Nick was seeking. But finally she choked down the disgrace and willed her lips to move.

“Ob. . . bedience,” she said, hanging her head.

“That’s right,” said Nick. “Now ask for permission to pull your pants back up, and then we’ll get going.”

Jessica pressed her hands down against the top of her head and took several deep breaths.

“M-may I pull up my puh . . . my pants, sir?” she stammered.

“Go ahead, Jess,” Nick replied magnanimously. “Next time I just hope you’ll think about your poor fanny before you become so uncooperative.”

Jessica took her hands off her head and grabbed her panties as quickly as she could, yanking them up over her sore behind. The white cotton enveloped her ass, the sudden contact bringing a stinging reminder of the tenderness back there. Nevertheless, she immediately seized her jeans and shimmied them up her legs, wincing as the rough material irritated her bottom still more.

After buttoning her jeans, she reached for her blouse which still hung open. Suddenly, she hesitated. Nick hadn’t said anything about her top. She definitely didn’t want to risk anything that might prolong her ordeal, much less provide an excuse for some new degrading punishment. Cautiously, she looked over her shoulder.

“May I b-button up my shirt . . . sir?”

Nick gave a long, loud laugh and was joined more hesitantly by the other men.

“Sure, Jess. You have my permission,” Nick said.

“Holy smokes, buddy,” Randal said. “You sure got her trained good. Say, you don’t think I could get a copy of some of them pictures, do you?”