Pathways to Submission: Lisa Pt. 01

Part One: Princess in Chains

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Chapter 1: Compatibility test

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A story from the not-too-distant future...

I love Michael. We've been friends since junior school. Our fathers are business partners. Michael and I have been officially dating for the last ten months, and living together for the last three. But I must be insane to agree to his request. Well, it isn't exactly a request. More a perfectly logical demand that we test our compatibility for marriage using the Personality Compatibility Test. According to Michael, it's proven technology, and the many hundreds of couples who have taken the test swear by it. Marriages among tested couples ending in divorce are an insignificant number compared to those who were married without taking the test before the big day. The logic is simple. Better to know if your intended life partner is, or isn't, compatible with you before taking the plunge into marriage. No nasty surprises after the big day. Fewer children living in broken homes following bitter divorces. You use technology to discover whether your intended spouse really is the man or woman of your dreams.

At least, that's what they say. There's plenty of glossy brochures and video advertisements promoting PCT. Even medical and social support agencies encourage couples to take the test prior to committing to marriage. It isn't compulsory, but at least completing the PCT means Michael and I will be fast-tracked for a birth permit, if and when we decide to start a family. In these days of strict population control, every couple needs whatever state-approved advantage we can get.

Supposedly the test teaches us as much about ourselves as our partner. Are we ready for marriage? Are we compatible marriage partners? How do we relate to the other? Would we be good parents? What are our real likes and dislikes? Apparently all will be revealed... yeah, right! I'm a sceptic about the validity of the PCT despite what all the government agencies decide. But Michael is sold on the idea.

I successfully navigated the short preliminary test on my own yesterday. A fifteen minute fantasy loosely based on some pirate movie I vaguely recall watching when I was younger. I admit that it was fun... creepy, but fun. If nothing else, it removed several reservations I had about doing the test with Michael. The extent to which the PCT shares your thoughts and emotions with anyone doing the test with you requires a huge amount of trust. I guess that's one of the reasons the test is reported to be so successful. If you don't trust your partner, then the likelihood of a successful marriage is not-so-good.

Our appointment is set for nine o'clock in the morning. The check-in and preparation process takes about ten minutes. The technician seats us in the padded modules we will occupy for the three hour test. He hooks up the sensors to our bodies and lowers the metal hoods over our heads. Finally he reminds us that will experience an AI generated scenario that will seem to last for weeks, whereas only a few hours will elapse in real time.

I have last minute jitters at entering into an unknown scenario with Michael. We were warned that we won't recognise each other inside the scenario, other than by identifying each other's personality and behaviour. Names, physical appearance, and even our voice will be disguised by the avatar representing us inside the fantasy world. Towards the end of the scenario, we will be prompted to identify the character with whom we feel the strongest emotional connection. If our chosen characters are the avatars of each other, then we pass the test. If we fail to find an emotional connection with anyone, or if either of us chooses a different character, then it reveals that Michael and I aren't compatible in the real world. To my mind that seems too simple a solution to a very complex issue, but the experts insist that PCT has a 99% accuracy rate. Tough luck on the 1% who get the wrong answer.

The AI powering the test will implant a back-story for my avatar into my mind (more creepiness!). In my case, a back-story influenced by Michael's impression of my personality gained from his preliminary test scenario. Equally, my preliminary test will have influenced Michael's avatar's back-story. Quite how or why is one of those questions that invariably receive a vague answer. However, once the scenario begins, every action and emotion my avatar takes or feels will be of my own making. The AI will simply... or not so simply... adapt the scenario to respond to Michael's and my actions. It's too late to back out now. For better or worse the room goes dark and we begin.

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Chapter 2: Surrender

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"Name and age," growls the Briniates sergeant, looking through a long list of names on a scroll.

"Annalisa Monti," I reply. "I'm twenty-three years old."

"Says here that your occupation is Princess of Cambris," mutters the sergeant, once he's found my name on his scroll.

"Yes, sergeant," I sigh, really wishing I wasn't in anyway connected to the Cambris royal house.

"Fetch the general!" cries the sergeant to one of his soldiers. "We've found a live one."

Minutes later a battle scarred warrior with two swords strapped to his back arrives. He's wearing what passes for a uniform among the Briniates. There's no insignia of his rank, but the way every soldier around him reacts, he's clearly their commanding general. The sergeant stands to attention so quickly that his scroll falls onto the floor. He's obviously torn between retrieving it or holding his position.

"She's a girl," sneers the general after looking briefly at me. "Can't you find anyone better suited to negotiate a surrender?"

"No, sir," replies the sergeant. "The only other survivors from the palace are stable boys, kitchen maids, gardeners and the like. This girl... woman... is the only survivor on your list who is of royal blood."

"Hmmph!" grumbles the general. "Is there anybody on the list who has still to be found?"

"Only a handful of servants and children, sir. The bodies of the king and his sons have been located and identified."

"Shit. Well I suppose she'll have to do. Bring her to the main square... in chains."

The general won't be the only one who regards me as unsuitable to be the new ruler of Cambris. I think I'm unsuitable. But what choice do I have? According to ancient custom, it is now my duty and burden to protect the lives of the citizens of Cambris. My uncle and cousins have all died trying to do so, leaving me as the last surviving member of the Cambris royal family. Which is a bizarre twist of fate and one of life's cruel jokes. My uncle has spent the last three years trying to disown me, and have the Cambris courts declare me an imposter. Another few weeks and he might have succeeded, but all that's now irrelevant.

The Cambris army is defeated. A hundred brave men lie dead on the battlefield with my kin. But the invading Briniates are merciful. By order of their king, the Briniates general has offered terms for our surrender. Apparently the Briniates have little interest in occupying Cambris, providing their king controls Cambris's rightful ruler. Which has been me for the last few hours. I suspect King Alejo's sudden generosity has more to do with his personal vendetta against the Cambris royal family. We are distantly related, and his son, Philippe and I were once childhood friends. But Philippe's close association with the brutal overseer, Drax, drove us apart. Philippe regards slavery as a part of the natural order of things, whereas I see it as an unsavoury evil. Since ascending to the Briniates throne, Alejo has embarked on a journey of war and conquest; a journey which now adds Cambris to its collection of vassal states.

I'm not even allowed to change my clothing. As soon as the outcome of today's battle became obvious, my loyal maid had me bind my breasts tight and disguise myself as a gardener. She tried to smuggle me to safety. A failed attempt that has left her among the many casualties of this war. My shirt and trousers are torn from rough handling by the Briniates soldiers who captured me. Fortunately for me they mistook me for a man.

At exactly three o'clock in the afternoon, I'm marched into the town square bound by iron fetters on my wrists and ankles. The general and his officers are standing on a makeshift platform. I'm horrified when I see Drax standing nearby. The citizens of the city are gathered around the edges of the square, watched over by scores of Briniates soldiers.

I'm made to stand on a separate small platform in front of the general. There are no speeches or proclamations. The instructions for my surrender were given to me an hour ago, and they are quite simple. I simply nod towards the triumphant Briniates general, signalling my irrevocable acceptance of the terms for surrender. Moments later, I feel the grip of the studded metal collar that Drax places around my neck. It's a cruel instrument that sits on my shoulders and imprisons my neck and chin in a vice-like grip. I'm all too familiar with this type of slave collar from my year long captivity in Quenier when I was nineteen.

The victors cheer, while the citizens and defeated remnants of the Cambris army look on in dismay.

"Now you will submit to me," orders the general in a loud voice for the benefit of the crowd.

I obey. My knees ache as I drop to the ground. The effect of the aphrodisiac potion that I was made to drink earlier is starting to take effect. Despite everything, I'm feeling sexually aroused.

"Lower," says Drax, who remains standing to one side of me.

I slide my body forward until my brow is touching the rough wooden boarding of the platform.

"Good. Take off your shirt."

I hesitate. Despite my unnatural desire to be fucked, I realise where this is going. Why Drax's leather trousers strain to hide the huge bulge of an erection.

"I told you to take off your shirt," growls Drax.

It's not an easy task, positioned as I am. I tug my shirt out of my pants and drag it over my head, tossing it onto the ground before me. Then I remove the cloth from around my breasts. Two Briniates soldiers come forward. I don't fight as they each grip an arm and haul me onto my knees. They force me to spread my arms wide. A faint breeze kisses my naked breasts and my navel, undoubtedly exciting every Briniates male within sight. Drax can hardly contain his delight. But fucking me in public isn't his style. In this situation, he gains his sexual pleasure by humiliating his victim.

"Test the collar, Drax," says the general. "Let her have a taste of what to expect when she humbles herself before our king."

"It would be my pleasure, general," smirks Drax.

I hold Drax's vicious gaze, willing ice into my veins as Drax moves around me. He rakes his eyes over my exposed body and smiles. But I don't cower before him. My eyes drift down to the bulge in his trousers. Whether it's the effect of the aphrodisiac, or my own wanton urges, I proudly push my breasts forwards for Drax to admire. I know my half-naked body will be a picture for the sadist to enjoy until such time that he has me whimpering for him to stop my torment.

"Beg for mercy, whore, and save yourself from further humiliation," whispers Drax into my ear. "You will decide how long this goes on for."

Drax twists the large stud at the back of my collar. Screwing the stud pushes a metal plate into the back of my neck. The effect is to thrust my throat against the front of the collar making it harder for me to breathe. It should make me panic, but in my current state of mind it only increases my aphrodisiac enhanced ardour.

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Chapter 3: The slave collar

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"Now, are you ready to beg for mercy, whore?" sneers Drax, mistaking my gasps as signs of distress rather than an approaching orgasm. "Let your countrymen see the pathetic little trollop that you are. Debase yourself in front of your people and the pain will stop... for now."

Never. Never, I silently vow. I'm a prisoner, not a slave. But I know Drax will continue my torment until he is ordered to stop. Savouring each moment as he makes a spectacle of tormenting me for everyone to see. My body betrays me. I begin shaking. Not from pain or fear, but from mounting sexual pleasure. The sight of Drax's bulging cock straining inside his pants isn't helping. I'm no stranger to how the effects of an aphrodisiac, along with the skilful manipulation of the studs in the collar, can reduce me into a helpless puppet. My nightmares from my time in Quenier are still full of the humiliating acts I willingly performed for Drax during is frequent visits.

However, I'm sure Drax doesn't know of my past experience with this form of torture while under the influence of an aphrodisiac. Drax thinks he is torturing me with pain, while someone among the Briniates knows that my submission is going to be gained from an excess of sexual pleasure. Why else would I have been given a powerful aphrodisiac earlier? I suppress a cry, and only hiss through my teeth as I push back an orgasm.

"Continue," orders the general to Drax.

I keep my mouth shut. I refuse to give these bastards the pleasure of having me beg for mercy in front of my countrymen. Pleading for mercy would acknowledge my total subjugation to their control. It would be my admission of enslavement. Fortunately, I know that killing me isn't part of their plan. Drax eases the stud in my collar and my breathing returns to near-normal, and my pending orgasm subsides unfulfilled.

"Do you want to beg for mercy now, whore?" chortles Drax.

I silently refuse. I will never beg in front of these rutting bastards.

"Again, Drax," orders the general. Drax happily complies.

Moments later, and to my horror, moisture runs down the inside of my pants. Despite my best efforts, the combined effect of the aphrodisiac and the torment has driven me into a powerful orgasm. It could be worse. Those unaccustomed to the effects of these slave collars can sometimes lose control of their bladder and bowels. But despite my loss of control, I know how to pace myself. How to yield to the torment. How to take it.

Drax is grumbling with frustration, but I still refuse to beg. The crowd in the square is becoming restless at the sight of my ongoing torment.

"General, sir," murmurs one of the officers standing next to the general. "It might be prudent to postpone this until later."

"She's still conscious," Drax snaps, obviously expecting his victim to be a blubbering heap of piss and shit on the floor by now.

The general considers his officer's advice. "Enough. Get her ready for transport."

The soldiers heave me upright. If it wasn't for the rigid collar forcing my chin up, I would barely be able to lift my head. The powerful orgasm that has soaked my pants, and the restricted airflow into my lungs, sets my head spinning. Darkness swarms in. But I fight it; grit my teeth and silently push back at the darkness. The soldiers drag me towards the metal cage standing next to where the general waits.

Those watching will assume that my trousers are soaked with my piss. A common enough result from being tormented by a studded slave collar. While I've suffered no physical wound, the aphrodisiac is still disorienting me. Would I have done better to accept the humiliation of begging for mercy, in order to bring an early end to Drax's performance? Would it make any difference if I admitted to my countrymen that their new ruler is now a Briniates slave? I draw comfort in the thought that the Briniates won't let me die. Not yet. So I, Annalisa Monti, steel my nerves and don't resist when they imprison me in a small portable cage.

I've no doubt that I will be taken to Dacia. After all, Dacia is the Briniates ancient stronghold; the centre of their realm for countless centuries. I have little hope that my guards will be careless and allow me to escape before they can haul me into the presence of their king. I'm their hostage to ensure that my countrymen accept Briniates dominion over Cambris. I'll be kept alive as long as I'm useful to the Briniates expanding empire. In what condition I'm kept in is another matter entirely.

By land, it's a long journey through territory over which the Briniates have only nominal control. They will need a strong force to deter an attack from one of the many rogue bands of mercenaries that plague the region. Or we could travel by sea. A slower but safer route.

Those of the Cambris royal house have fostered diplomatic ties with other states very different from the vassalage preferred by the Briniates. Until the Briniates betrayal, the ruling houses of Cambris and Briniates could claim alliances with two-thirds of the continent's rulers. The Briniates manipulated my uncle into exhausting the Cambris army against our common enemy, before springing their backstabbing ambush. To secure his conquest, King Alejo will eventually need to return me to my position as ruler of Cambris. But he'll only permit me to do that once he's certain that I'm a broken husk; permanently enslaved to his every whim. He'll humiliate and shame me until I abandon all hope of freedom. He'll have Drax torment me until I beg for a death that he will take pleasure in denying. To live the life of a slave until Alejo feels ready to return me to my homeland; to sit on a throne as his obedient puppet. And when my usefulness is exhausted, he'll undoubtedly consign me to an excruciatingly slow and painful death. The hatred King Alejo holds for me knows no bounds. Despite our distant kinship, Alejo and I are opposites in almost every respect.

My aching body presses against the bars of my tiny cage, sending ripples of pain through me. I'm no stranger to pain. The year I spent as a slave-whore in the pleasure houses of Quenier introduced me to a life of hopelessness; where the bizarre mixture of pleasure and pain was an everyday occurrence. I survived that. I'll survive this. My heavy collar restricts my ability to breathe freely. But I adjust. The experience would drive many people insane. Again, my experience in Quenier has taught me how to endure.

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Chapter 4: Prepared for transport

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I know today's demonstration was just a prelude to the cruelty and torment Alejo will be planning for me when we reach our destination. Only the knowledge that Alejo needs me to be able to function keeps me from sinking into total despair. Last year, Alejo belatedly learned of my survival from the massacre he orchestrated six years ago. Unknown to me until recently, I've been the target of the Briniates king's ambitions since then. Alejo has been biding his time until I was able to claim my birthright as the rightful ruler of Cambris. My uncle's foolishness has conveniently removed himself and his heirs from the equation, and reopened my legitimate claim to the throne of Cambris. Now I know what Alejo would have done earlier, had he been aware that I'd survived the murderous episode that resulted in the death of my parents, and inadvertently opened the way for my uncle's ascension to the throne. Alejo has me in his clutches. I now understand why my mother's dying command was to order her maid to hide and protect me from my mother's Briniates kin, particularly King Alejo. Unfortunately, while the maid managed to hide me from spies, she was unequal to the task of protecting me. A year later I was captured by brigands, and sold as a slave for the Duke of Quenier's brothels.

I try to console myself with the knowledge that Alejo secretly fears me. At least, until he can reduce me to a broken and obedient slave to his demands. Only then will Alejo feel safe. Should the numerous allies of Cambris unite to rescue me while I'm unbroken, then I'm a threat to Alejo's rule over the Briniates. My ancestry gives me a tenuous claim to his throne. Whether anyone will attempt to rescue me is something that neither Alejo nor I can know. But the possibility is enough to make Alejo nervous, and very cautious in my handling. Hence the heavy slave collar and fetters.