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My Prince, My Prisoner

byAmericanGoddess©

THIS IS A CREATIVE WORK OF FICTION

They call it the Most Nobel Royal Order of the Blue Garter.

The story begins with the Countess of Salisbury, also known as the Fair Maid of Kent. (Historians argue over the identity of the woman.) The lady dropped her garter at a Court Ball in 1349 when dancing with King Edward III.

Tradition says that to cover the lady's embarrassment King Edward picked up the garter, and with the French words, 'Honi soit qui mal y pense', (roughly translated as 'shame on anyone who thinks evil of this'), buckled it on to his leg. (Showing his acceptance and allegiance.) Soon he and a team of knights started turning up decorated in Garters. He even had garters decorating his bed.

It is surprising that the dropping of a garter would ruffle the modesty of a fourteenth century lady of the court. At this time in history men and women swam naked together without shame.

The spin on this well-known story is that the garter was the badge of a witch and Edward's action saved Katherine from certain death for sorcery. For this deed he is counted as being heroic and chivalrous.

Standing up against the church was dangerous, even for a King, as was later evidenced by Cromwell.

The countess’ garter identified her with the pagan religion of Europe and Edward made a point of identifying himself with it. He even tied it on his leg. The use of a garter as the totem item of a priestess can be traced back to Paleolithic times.

For centuries, the King of England was also regarded, by virtue of his office, as being the Grand High Priest of the Old Religion of the Britons. Many kings of England swore allegiance both to Christianity and to the ancient gods of Druidic Europe.

Today The Most Noble Order of the Garter consists of: Her Majesty the Queen, Sovereign of the Order, and His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales and 169 other members.

So you see, they’ve kept us around for a very long time. Priestess, Sorceresses, Witches...much to the annoyance of The Church of England. They’d like to have the Royal Family under their thumb, and in many ways they do. They fancy themselves the master puppeteers behind the throne. But the royal family needs us, for many various reasons. This is one of them:

There is an ancient Pagan Sexual Rite called a “King-Making.”

Without this ceremony, having ritualistic sex with the Goddess in the living form of her priestess, the king is not considered fit or able to rule the people.

The Goddess is the Land itself. “Mother Earth.”
He who wins the Goddess wins the Land.
Only the Husband of the Land can Rule over it.
No one else has this right.
Therefore you have to be “mated” to the Land you intend to Rule.
But how can a King mate with the Land?
A Priestess is the Goddesses representative on Earth.
You Mate with the Goddess by having sex with her Priestess.
Sex is an act of worship.
Sex with a Priestess = Worshipping the Goddess = Being Mated to the Land

Prince William knows that all women are Goddesses to be worshipped. He knows this because I taught him. You see, I am the Priestess that welcomed the handsome teenager into manhood after he killed his first stag.

Originally, he-who-is-to-be-king would stalk the stag armed with nothing but a flint knife, thus proving his manhood and worthiness to rule. After this they smeared him with its blood. Todays young princes use a rifle. It’s a much neater affair these days.

Then they brought him to me. The Priestess, the Goddess, the Land.

If he showed himself to be a satisfying lover it would be a good omen. The land would respond favorably under his rule. I have heard that Prince Charles experience was a comedy of errors, and from what I see on the tabloid covers I can believe it. The land itself has rejected him.

So I wondered what to expect when the nervous teenager appeared at the entrance.

So, I’m sure, did he. In the course of the night, the young prince would prove his country proud.

I loved him instantly.

The sight of him made me draw in a breath. He was beautiful. “The Pin-Up Prince” they were calling him at the time. And yet he was so much more. Young, strong, capable and with natural intelligence gleaming in his eyes. Oh yes. I could defiantly work with this material. With a toss of my head and bat of my eyelashes I beckoned him come closer.

“Kneel” I said. And he did without question.

Being pleased, I kissed him.

Beautiful and obedient. He was mine to command.

I leaned in close to his ear. “Do you know why you’re here?” I asked him.

He nodded silently, blushing, in his awe and embarrassment.

I would instruct him carefully. My young Prince, my student.

“I’m going to teach you how to worship me...with your body.”

I felt a rush of power flowing through me as if drawn from a deep well. Was it the female divine? Or was it the sight of the future king, so powerful in his own right, kneeling before me in total subservience.

An unbearable tension built in the room. Was it the magick? Or was it the pressure of the roles we played? So ancient, unchanging and primal.

I looked at him the way a cat must look at a baby bird. And then he did something that made me want to weep. He disarmed me with his sudden intimacy. In all genuine humility he asked “Make me a man.” I knew he meant it by the tone of his voice: deep, clear and unwavering. So somber and serious for his tender years.

The tension broke and dissolved around us, in a sweeping silent roar which was more powerful than the pressure had been. He was cancer, cardinal water, like his mother, that great lunar goddess Diana, and just as adept at sweeping people away with the flood and drowning them within himself. He possessed strength of mind and will. I knew I needed to control him, if only for fear of being lost under his ever turning currents.

I so desperately wanted to own him.

When he pushed himself between my thighs I wondered if he had read my mind.

Was this instinct that he knew what I needed? A eager desire to please me? Or, as I jealously suspected, was this experience? I had so desired his virginity for my own prize.

A flash of anger welled up. I wanted to know, I wanted to demand answers.

Instead I let him wash over me, wave after wave. He had buried his head down with passionate rolling laps, pulling me in like sand on the shoreline. It was too late for questions, he had me. The sweetness of him, the softness of his full and pouting lips kissing and tugging at mine. Unconsciously I moaned, rubbing myself against his perfect face.

Fervently I grasped him by the shoulders, nearly pleading “Tell me you will do exactly as I say, tell me you will obey me, tell me...”

“Yes,” he replied “I will..”

“Swear it.”

“Yes, I swear it.”

I studied his face for a moment. There I saw the sincerity I looked for. Those eyes of liquid blue, that angels face, turned up at me so innocently from between my thighs.

So he was mine. Mine. My beautiful object. To possess. Mine. A flush of pride and ownership rose up, darkening my cheeks.

I could stand it no more. This was my Prince and I would enjoy him.

“Against the wall. Now,” I demanded with panting breath.

And there I tied him to a sconce. A more decorative and multi purpose household object I have yet to find. I stripped open his shirt, pulled off his boots and moved hastily down to unfasten his belt.

And then I looked up. He was studying me. Calculating. I could see the wheels of his mind turn. I stood up and took a step backward. Gods what a vision. Indeed I did sigh.

There he was. This amazing young man, stripped nearly naked, bound and tied. I drank in the sight of him. “Locks of the sun, child of the moon, born on the 21st of June.”



Midsummer’s Day.

I knew who he was.

I knew I faced The Sun God in all his radiant glory.



Though naked and helplessness, his eyes reflected to me total confidence. Was I under his spell? Was he under mine? Or was it that the both of us were in the grips of forces greater than our own, our bodies being used to reenact this ancient dance of power exchange.

Great, Golden, and Glowing. He was overwhelming me, so irrepressible was he in his power. Fully restrained, he overtook me till. His warm rays radiating outward from the center of him. Reaching me. Heating me. I felt I could not breath.

It was in a mixture of fear, confusion and desire that I blindfolded him. Those eyes of his, they were too penetrating. I slid my hands across his warm bare chest. I wanted to envelop his warmth, as the night tries futilely to cover the day, overtaking it only to find it reappears. Kissing him hotly I went further and further downward to what I sought.

What is it that makes us want to consume god? Swallowing his flesh as in holy communion, taking him into our own bodies and making him part of ourselves. I could not resist. I took him into my mouth.

He jolted with a sudden exclamation, every muscle in his body tightening. I moaned with my lips tightly around him. This was mine. My toy. It belonged to me and I would enjoy it as it pleased me. It was with great delight that I watched him strain against the bonds that held him. I had captured my prize and was not letting it go, taking it deeper and deeper into my mouth. With lips and tongue and gentle nips of teeth, I watched him jump and cry out, his pleas of entreating desperation falling pleasurably on my ears.

Finally I relented, leaning back and stroking him softly in my hand. He relaxed and leaned back against the wall. This was lesson one. Pulling off his blindfold I spoke to him as womankind; I spoke to him as the goddess: “I am the source of your pleasure and your suffering.”

Now it was time. Time to take what was mine to possess. I unfastened the rope from the sconce leaving it tied to his wrists, this I used as a lead. I took him to bed.

When I laid him on his back he looked so young. Too young, too tender, too pretty for the treatment I was giving him. Perhaps he had played with girls before, but I was an adult woman, a priestess, and there was no playing with me. I felt pangs of guilt for all the innocence I was about to take from him. But then I remembered, he has asked me, “Make me a man.” So this I would do for him. This was my sacred duty. There was no turning back now from this transformation.

I bound his writs to the head board. I straddled his hips. I took a long last look at the boyish traces about his face. I felt my eyes well up with tears of knowing. The boy I lay down in this bed will be gone forever, and from his place a man will rise up.

I felt my own need driving me forward to complete the act. His youthful strength and beauty was too much for me to resist. I encircled his hardened shaft in my hand, still moistened from my mouth and stroked it slowly.

“Your life came from inside a womans body; as a man your desire will drive you to return to be inside it again and again; and when you die mother earth will take you back into her womb. This is at the center of your world!”

I lowered myself on to him. I had not realized how eager my body had been; I was incredibly wet with anticipation. Sliding down was like lighting a fire within me. I could not believe how good he felt. He licked his lips, and I watched the bulging muscles of his arms and chest strain as he pulled against his restraints. There was little he could do.

I rode him like the thoroughbred colt he was. I had roped and reigned him, and now I would break him in. My hands planted firmly in the center of his chest, my fingernails dug into him as lusty cries projected from my throat. I took him fast; I took him slow; I took him anyway I wanted. I delighted in my conquest.

Then I made the mistake of looking up into his burning eyes of lust and frustration. It was then my orgasm overtook me. I was nearly blinded by pleasure so intense it turned to pain. It came from him. I know it did. It was male sexual energy, focused and directed like a laser. Even bound into submission he was dangerous. I began to worry- when I untied him would vengeance be his?

Barely the thought had passed when the second wave of pleasure/pain descended bringing me to near collapse. This was unnatural. Or was it? After all this was a ceremonial working, I reminded myself. Sex magick is ever so potent. And it would be especially true with this particular young man. Perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew.

I decided to finish with him quickly. My pace became faster and more repetitive, steady, faster, steady, faster. I felt him brace underneath me, beads of sweat on his brow, he licked his lips again and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. I knew he was near the end.

With a groan that seemed to emanate from the core of his chest he fired into me again and again like a mighty cannon. I began to tremble all over clinging to the thrashing wild steed I had mounted. I saw a flash of white light.

When I opened my eyes again I was laying across his chest. I wanted to reach up and untie him but found I could not move. It would be several minutes more before I could. When I regained the use of my limbs I slowly and began to unfasten him. He watched me in silence. I wondered what he was thinking. But I am not the type to ever ask.

He sat up and stretched out his arms, staring at me unspeaking all the while.

I looked into his face. It had indeed changed. But instead of pangs of regret, I felt nothing but admiration for the masculine confidence I saw. This was a knowing adult male facing me, with a deeper understanding of the mysteries of life. He seemed to be taking it all in, processing, sorting and filing. There were absolutely no doubts he had a complete grasp of the experience and would turn it to his personal gain. Leadership.

As he pulled on his cloths I felt a little shaken, knowing I had just empowered him with authority over the Land. He was astute, and could easily have us all in the palm his hand. I was beginning to wonder if it was possible for a one man to have too much charisma, too much magnetism.

But then he smiled most charmingly and leaned in, plying me with an intimate flirtatious kiss.

I fell under his sway. I would grant him anything he asked, and I knew the country would do the same. There was nothing the world would deny him now. He need only outstretch his hand and it was his.

He was bullet proof, he was magick.

I have seen him since, at formal social gatherings. He is always faultlessly polite and gracious. Every inch the diplomat. None would ever guess our ‘history.’ We keep up appearances with discretion. I occasionally catch him in my gaze and fix him with a smitten stare. But this hardly stands out in room full of people smitten with him, in a country that is smitten with him.

Mostly I am proud of the man he has grown to become, and I like to think I helped him find himself, and his own path.

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