A Secret

EDIT 8/2016

1.

If the rumors were true, the woman was over a century old. She looked no more than twenty. Less, at the moment. Far less. No doubt due to the vulnerability of her present position. Her arms were chained over her head, high and tight as they could be forced to stretch. It must be painful for her. She'd dangled there for hours. Of course she was much too proud to allow the strain to show upon her face.

It irritated him, how beautiful she was. It was a distraction. An irrelevancy. He had not brought her down here for amusement.

A witch should look like a witch, like in stories. A witch should be old and twisted and hideous. A hag.

She had spikey, strangely colored hair. Silver. But not like a grandmother's. Hers was shinier. Much more metallic-looking, yet soft and flexible as ordinary hair. Her brows at least were a normal color, black, though slightly slanted, almost like an elf's.

"Let us waste no time," said the prince, "Where is my crown?"

"It is not yours," she said, "It never will be."

"You are mistaken," he said, "It is mine. Mine by right. You are a thief and worse, a traitor to our nation—and you shall be punished severely for this, witch. Severely, do you hear? I promise you. Tell me where you took the thing."

"Beyond your reach," Thayra replied, "Which is all that matters."

"This is foolish," said the prince, "What do you hope to gain, at this stage? We know my sister doesn't have it. She was already gone across the sea a full fortnight when it vanished from the treasure vault. It could only have been you that did this. But you cannot hope to smuggle it to her. Our border is too well guarded now. You must have stashed it some place, right after you spirited it away. Somewhere quite close, I imagine. You simply haven't had time to accomplish more. Just tell me, witch. Tell me where you hid it."

"Never," said Thayra.

"Damn you, woman. Consider your position. It is unwise of you to defy my will in your present circumstances. Furthermore, it is pointless. You cannot hope to hold back what I wish to know. Give me the secret, or it shall be taken from you. Look around you. Look at the ... instruments upon the walls. Quite a collection, is it not? A perfectly ghastly spectacle. You will be forced to speak. That is inevitable. Only a fool or a madwoman could believe otherwise."

"I will not return it to you. That is all I have to say upon the matter."

"You overestimate your strength, my lady. Your courage is admirable. Truly, it is. But make no mistake, I will use whatever means are required to extract the crown's location from you. Perhaps you're thinking I might restrain myself, in light of your sex? Not so. Honor be damned, my need is too great. You shall be put to torture, woman. To the fullest, most dreadful measure of excruciation. I will show you no mercy, once it begins. Take heed, therefore. This is your last chance to spare yourself. Speak, woman! Speak!"

"I fear you not. Your threats are empty."

"You think I bluff? You think I'll not see it through? You think I lack the stomach?"

She shrugged, as much as her chains allowed. "I care not. What I do know is that you lack the power. You and all your atrocious minions cannot harm me. Though I am your prisoner, and I have not the ability at present to escape these bonds, I retain enough of my magic to protect my flesh. You have not the means to penetrate those defenses. Go ahead and try. It will avail you nothing."

With a snarl, the prince seized the whip from the hand of his chief torturer, standing patiently beside him. "Wait, your grace," said the hunched, loathsome man, with a rasping cough, "It is not fitting. Let me—"

"Silence!" roared the prince. He cracked the whip in the air over his head. "I've skill enough for the task. But don't just stand there. Strip the woman! Tear off her garments, by the gods, and be quick about it."

"So be it, my liege," said the torturer, "'Tis but the work of a moment."

The sorceress was outfitted, same as when she'd been taken, in a sturdy, sensible riding costume, a stark contrast to the flimsy ballroom follies he'd grown accustomed to seeing on the noblewomen of the court, including his own sister. Yet its fastenings and seams gave little trouble to the huge hairy hands of the torturer. The riding dress was peeled away like tissue paper. Beneath, however, was revealed a formidable corset that kept her covered almost as thoroughly as the dress had done.

The prince would not be foiled. "Her underthings as well, while you're about it."

"Aye, dread sovereign. Off they come. Behold."

Thayra's face turned crimson, but she did not scream as he had expected—and, in truth, desired. Nor did she cringe, or tremble. She set her mouth in a firm line, and lifted her chin with arrogant defiance. Indeed, he could not deny it thrilled him to see it.

Her expression itself was not solely what thrilled and dazzled him. The breasts of the witch were astonishing. He could conceive of no other word of description. Yet the longer he stared at them, he realized they were too large for the rest of her figure. Also, they stood too high. Breasts of that heft, ungirded as they now were, should hang lower in deference to gravity. Hers refused to. He wondered if she had used magic to enhance them. He would wager she had. They could not be natural endowments. They were too perfect.

He was further startled by the taunt lines of conditioned muscle across her narrow belly. He had never seen a woman's stomach so flat and firm.

Was her entire appearance—her youth, and all the rest—an illusion? An affectation? Or was she really the creature she looked to be? How would one ever know for certain? Again, he wished she looked like the witches in the old familiar tales. He wished she was a monstrous crone.

"You think to shame me?" she declared, "Fah! Gaze upon my unclothed body if you will. I do not fear your eyes. You dishonor yourself, not I."

"It is not your dishonor I seek," he answered, "It is your obedience!"

Then he lashed the whip across both her undefended breasts.

Except it seemed she spoke the truth about her magic. Her breasts were not undefended after all, despite their absolute exposure. The whip rebounded away from them without reaching the skin, blocked by an invisible barrier.

She grinned at him. And when she did, her eyes seemed to flash as bright as her teeth.

He tried again. He tried several more times. He struck at her belly and at her smiling face. He went behind her and struck at her back and at her buttocks. The whip could not mark her.

"How is this possible?"

The chief torturer shrugged and shuffled his feet. "Magic," he remarked in a mournful tone, and then spat sideways on the stone flags.

"But we captured her! My soldiers put her in chains!" Though not before she had slain nearly thirty of them with bolts of lightning and balls of flame. "How were they able to lay hands upon her and bind her?"

He tossed the whip to the torturer, then reached at Thayra with his own two hands. She took a breath as he approached, stiffening slightly. He was surprised by this reaction, and pleased, and then further surprised and further pleased when no enchanted barrier blocked his hands. He placed them on her skin. He gripped both her breasts. Filling his hands with them, in fact.

"I can take hold of you, after all," he said, to himself as much as to her, "Just as my men finally did, once they fought their way close enough. Is it speed, perchance? I mean, is that the determining factor? The trigger for the blockage. The speed or the forcefulness of one's approach." She gave no response. "Proceeding with gentleness, instead, one is not repulsed. Now I'm through it, what should happen if I presume to—?" And without fully voicing the intention, he attempted to pinch and twist both of the witch's nipples at once.

Instantly, he was flung backward several paces, stumbling and swaying. It was like wasps had stung his fingertips.

"Hellfire!" he exclaimed, "Death and judgement!"

"Now you understand," declared Thayra, with a solemn, satisfied nod.

"Your reverence," said the torturer, "look there! Upon her belly!" He pointed. Thayra had a small blue jewel embedded in her navel. The prince had noticed it before, of course. Now it was glowing. Pulsing, faintly, too. The source of the spell?

"Remove it, man!" commanded the prince.

Thayra clucked her tongue. "That won't work. You'll see."

Indeed they did. The torturer attempted to pry the jewel loose with a pair of long-handled pinchers—the metal dissolved to smoke the moment it made contact with the jewel, while the man himself was flung flat on his back with a howl of agony.

"A most dolorous enchantment, your worshipful," he declared, ruefully, when he'd recovered enough to sit upright, and he wrung his gloved hands in the same manner the prince himself was still doing. Their throbbing persisted.

"Now," said Thayra, "do you see? Do you learn? You must accept what I'm telling you. You shall not regain the crown, Prince Stallan. And without it, the barons of our land will never accept your bid for kingship." It was no ordinary crown; it was enchanted. Without it, he could not control the dragons. He could not keep them tame. "You have driven away the rightful heir, for the moment. But soon she will return in strength. Cashalon will provide her an army twice the size of yours. He will not hesitate—he's loved your sister since childhood."

"Fah. It's not his love for her that will bring him, whatever he might claim. Don't mistake me—I don't deny his passion. But when he comes, it'll be to take the crown for himself, not for my sister. It's our dragons he wants, above all. She knows it, too. That's why she never married him before."

"No doubt. She will now, regardless. You've driven her to it, boy."

"You dare to call me 'boy'?"

"I do. Boy."

"She was never meant to escape the city. She never would have made it if ... That was your doing again, witch."

"It was. Boy."

"I would see you tortured to madness for that act alone. And it was only the start of your meddling."

She laughed at him. "I make no apologies. I will fight you to my last breath, usurper. Murderer."

"Call me what you will, your contempt means nothing to me. I shall not be stopped."

"You're wrong. You will. In fact I've stopped you already."

His guts clenched and squirmed inside his body. He was going to be sick. "I must have that crown! Whatever the cost! Give it to me! You will give it up to me, upon my oath!"

Another shrug, another laugh. "Empty words, Prince Stallan. As I've already demonstrated, there is nothing you can do to compel me. Nothing!"

"You will never leave this dungeon alive! You'll dangle there in chains until you starve to death, if nothing else, by all the gods of earth and sky!"

"So be it. You'll never find the crown, in any case."

"Neither shall my sister nor that pompous ass Cashalon."

"Don't be certain of that. Prior arrangements were made. Ha!"

His head was pounding fit to burst. Worst of all, over everything else, was how damned beautiful she looked. And how triumphant. She dangled there before him in chains with no clothes remaining but her purple boots, and striped stockings tied midthigh with matching ribbons—and it made no difference to her dignity at all. Unless it added to it. "If I cannot harm you ... If there's absolutely no way to ..." But then, inspiration. A flash across his vision, making the torch-lit chamber whirl around him. "I wonder. I wonder. Perhaps ... perhaps there is another way. Yes. We shall see. It will make an interesting experiment, in any case, even should it fail. Let us put it to test."

When he turned to his chief torturer, his face fell once more into a sour frown.

"But no," he went on, "Not you. It cannot be with you here. You won't do at all for what I have in mind. There is another, though. Yes. Yes indeed! He should serve this particular purpose very well."

"Who do you mean, your rulership?" asked the chief torturer.

"Leave me, dog," was the reply, "Go forth and send me your new apprentice, in your place."

"My apprentice, sir? But he is ... he is very new to the trade. He is unschooled."

"Not from the whispers I hear—not, that is, for the labor I shall put him to. Tarry no further, my patience wanes. Make haste!"

And the chief torturer did.

2.

The apprentice torturer was head-and-shoulders taller than the prince, with muscles like an ox. The red mask across the upper half of his face did little to disguise his handsomeness.

"If the rumors speak true," said the prince, "you are very much a popular fellow with the serving girls of my castle, as well as among a certain number of the ladies of the court, despite the lowliness of your station. What say you to those claims, sirrah?"

"Only that I am your man, your grace, for all my faults. Whatever your bidding, this I shall do."

"A fair spoken answer. Lean close, so that I might pass a quiet word or two of such a bidding into your ear, and none other's." He did not want Thayra to hear the instructions he was giving.

He watched her sideways as he whispered, and was rewarded to see the witch's haughty expression shift slightly towards uncertainty and worry.

As directed, the apprentice torturer knelt next to the prisoner, and unfastened the thick manacle from 'round her right ankle which had anchored her foot in place. After this the hulking young man, remaining on his knees but sliding around in front of the witch, lifted her foot in his two hands and removed her purple boot. Then he pulled off the high striped stocking she wore beneath it.

Thayra wrinkled her nose. "What is the meaning of this? Prince Stellan, you are absurd. I fear in your frustration, you have lost your wits entirely."

The prince did not deign to reply. He watched as the apprentice torturer commenced to caress the bare foot of the sorceress. His hands, large and blunt-fingered as they were, demonstrated the skills and delicacy of much practice. He massaged the witch's foot all over from heel to tiptoe with exacting caution and control. Back and forth, slow and steady. Then gradually his hands progressed higher, to the witch's ankle and calf.

Thayra's foot, the prince noticed, was as perfectly formed as the rest of her. It was quite an attractive foot, for those who find the well-formed feet of a woman an attractive attribute. The toenails were not painted. Atop the foot, she had a small tattoo of a dragonfly. The prince found this oddly fascinating. To a degree, strange and silly as it sounds, that single bare foot of the sorceress, and watching it be lovingly caressed as he had ordered the other man to do, felt more shocking in his eyes—more obscene—than her exposed breasts and genitalia. He was not at all used to seeing women without shoes and stockings on. Shoelessness, after all, was a mark of poverty and peasantry. Not even the lowest level serving girls in the castle would allow themselves to be seen barefoot outside their bedchambers. Only women on farms walked barefoot, or women of the streets.

As the woman watched the apprentice massage her foot and then her calf, her expression grew progressively more and more bewildered and anxious and aggravated. She was not only seeing it happen, of course—she was experiencing the physical stimuli. And it was clear that she found the sensations both surprising and troubling. If she was truly as old as she was supposed to be, the prince wondered how long it had been since a man had touched her foot or leg in such a fashion. Despite her apparent attractiveness, it might have been quite a very long time indeed. Great power and the pursuit of wisdom are isolating, alienating things.

"What do you hope to accomplish with this?" asked the witch. She sounded genuinely puzzled.

The prince signaled the apprentice torturer with a snap of his fingers. The young man released Thayra's foot, stood upright and then moved behind her. He put his hands upon her shoulders, and began to rub them. Working downward from there, and then all the way up again, he massaged, eventually, the entirety of her spine, including the back of her neck. Then his fingertips traced her ribs from both sides, until they reached the outer edges of her breasts.

Her nipples had stiffened, and darkened. Somehow the prince had not noticed until that moment. And Thayra made a small sound, low in her throat. A kind of murmur. He saw her swallow after that. And she took deep breaths.

The fingers of the apprentice torturer crept closer and closer to the swollen nipples of the witch. Their path was not direct. They approached in spiral patterns.

"This won't work," pronounced the witch, "This will avail you nothing. He can keep up the ridiculous game as long as he likes—I don't mind, I suppose. It will change nothing."

The apprentice torturer never touched the witch's nipples. The prince signaled him again at the last moment before that would have occurred. The young man moved around to the front of the prisoner and knelt once more.

"My foot again?" she asked, with a wry chuckle, "I suppose I don't mind. The stimulus is pleasant enough, far as it goes. Rather soothing."

"I'm glad you find it so," said the prince, "But the stimulus will not be applied to your foot, this time."

The apprentice torturer leaned close—as close as he was able. He kissed the witch's belly, its taunt, clenching ridges, just beneath the glowing blue jewel in her navel. He continued to kiss her, but not in the same place twice. His kisses moved lower and lower ...

The prince lifted his eyebrows at the witch. She jerked her chin up at him as she had so many times previously, and sniffed with theatrical derision, yet her face had again flushed crimson, sweat beaded her forehead, and from the movements in her throat, he could tell that she was swallowing over and over. She seemed unable to stop.

The young man's tongue was lapping her sex now. He held her left buttock cupped with one hand, to keep her pressed tight against his face, while his other hand wandered lazily up and down her opposite thigh, and occasionally the calf too, stroking, squeezing ... exploring, and testing, and playing ... all those things at once. Same as his tongue, though from where the prince stood, that tongue was moving with much greater forcefulness than the man had allowed himself at any of the proceeding stages ...

Thayra had squeezed her eyes shut. Her nostrils twitched like a tiger's from the intensity of her breathing. Then she began to bite her bottom lip. And her body was shivering.

Beads of glistening perspiration had appeared all over her magnificent breasts, to match the sweat dripping down her face.

He could hear her breathing now. Except no, those weren't breaths. They were exclamations. Faint grunts and whimpers. She was keeping her mouth clamped tight to try to muffle them, to hold them in—she was failing.

He had an erection now, and it ached inside his trousers. He was torturing himself at the same time he was torturing the witch.

He heard Thayra going "Uhhrr. Uhhuuhhnn. Uhhrruuhhn." Then all the sudden the exclamations shortened and quickened their rhythm, and the pitch went up. "Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!"

"Stop!" he bellowed.

The apprentice torturer instantly backed away. Moisture glistened across the unmasked half of his face.

Thayra's eyes popped open, wide as they could, and her mouth dropped open in the same moment. She looked at the prince with bafflement and disappointment, both of which quickly transmuted to rage.

"You—" she started.

The prince lashed at her breasts with the whip. He did not strike at her with full force, and the same invisible barrier prevented the whip from reaching her flesh that had protected her before. But this time she felt the blow, or part of it. She recoiled, gasping.