The Captive Princess Ch. 01

Chapter One

Bared

her husband, Lord of the East, Defender of the Crown, and so forth and so on, fucked her well and often, but the last night of the week ... every other week ... well, those evenings were special.

She could hear him feed wood into the hearth until it blazed with a roaring fire that would keep their bedchamber warm. Warm enough, at least ... fall was upon them and the top of the Nest, where the Lord's quarters were located, had begun to grow quite cold at night. She tried to remain at ease while she heard him draw shut the wooden doors to their balcony, ensure the windows were closed, and light a number of candles and braziers throughout the room. Nevertheless, despite her best efforts to stay calm, by the time her husband had set to bubbling a small copper pot filled with scented oil and lowered the chain holding aloft the circular, brass candle rack that hung from a metal bracket driven deep into the stone of the ceiling, her excitement had made it nearly impossible to stand still.

"Alright, Penelope," her husband said as he gave her a loving kiss on the top of the head and a quick embrace. "Stop your fluttering and go put your clothes away."

Finally.

With as much dignity as she could muster given her excitement, with hurried, nervous footsteps she left her corner and moved towards a row of cabinets set in the far wall of their bedchamber. The large, furred rug on which she'd been standing was soft and warm while the stone of the chamber was hard and cold ... the transition was jarring on her tiny, bare feet. The domed room in which they stood was the largest of the lord's quarters and it perched at the top of the keep's tallest tower. The views of the valleys, ice frosted canyon rims, and clear blue skies from the balcony were incredible, and most importantly the room felt safe.

Her husband had explained to her all the features of her new home that made it impervious to assault, its remoteness ensured that she need not stress and fret over how many new faces she might encounter each day, and their chambers were entirely private and secure once the door to their room had been double-barred with thick cords of aged oak. The truth was that until she'd married and come to her lord's home, she had never felt safe a day in her life. The ride through the Valleys and then up the wooden lift to the Nest had been horrendously difficult for her even though he had bundled her in an enormous overcoat and held her close the entire journey, but once she'd arrived, she finally felt safe. Safe from crowds, from exhausting noises, from endless unfamiliar faces, and most importantly ... safe from herself. In such an isolated keep, she could never hope to escape her husband's watchful eye, and that more than anything else helped silence the endless terrors that had once ruled her thoughts.

My husband understands me in all the ways that my family never did.

Her father loved her,but the face he wore to be king never failed to reduce her to a terrified, trembling mess. Her mother was kinder, but neither of them ever understood the extent to which she lived every second in her family's castle in fear of one thing or another.

All of that now felt very long ago and very far away.

While her husband detached the candle rack from the heavy chain from which it hung, she slid her gown and undergown off her body with quivering arms, unwound the bandeau wrapped around her chest, and within a few minutes had rendered herself as naked as she had been on her name-day. Once nude, she gathered up the garments and neatly folded them atop a cabinet. Her hands shook as she worked and her husband undoubtedly took satisfaction in the extent to which two nights of teasing her without providing release had left her quivering with wanton desperation. As she disrobed, her eyes kept drifting to the low table on which sat a candle heating the pot of aromatic oil, a gleaming silver bowl filled with water, several towels, a straight razor of black-hued steel set within a red handle, and four sturdy leather manacles. Riveted to the exterior of each of the manacles were sturdy iron loops, and she was quite familiar with the manner in which her husband would use those attachment points once the cuffs had been fastened tight around her wrists and ankles.

The razor had cost a small fortune, and she had gasped when she learned of the price he had paid. He had tried to justify the expense by explaining that shaving her every fortnight was a time-consuming business and that the sharpness of the steel would greatly expedite the process, but it was not as if the hair of her body could grow long within fourteen days time.

The blazing hearth had warmed the room, but she still shivered as she looked up at her husband. He had removed his shirt and boots and wore only his dark pants. His stomach was flat, the striations of his abdominal muscles created a wedge that enticingly directed her attention towards the thick dark leather of his belt, and she desperately wanted to be in his arms ... that would come later, of course. His dark eyes were kind but also had a hungry glint as he looked down at her.

The two of them were a study in contrasts. If she stood straight, she measured a few inches past five feet and after a heavy meal weighed around seven stone ... he stood close to a foot taller, was well over twice her weight, and his shoulders, chest, legs, and abdomen were corded and bunched with muscle. He kept his brown hair shorn close to his scalp, as befitted the warrior he was, while her silver-gold locks hung thick and heavy to the middle of her back. His jaw was heavy and hard-edged, while hers was thin and delicate, and his nose was strong and flat while hers was small and turned up at the tip. He loved her ears, which protruded a bit more than one usually saw ... a feature that had earned her unending, cruel teasing as a child ... perhaps because his own ears lay so flat against his skull.

Not even a sock was allowed to her, but she wasn't embarrassed by her nudity, nor would she feel any humiliation when her body inevitably began to exhibit visible signs of arousal. Her husband cherished her form and delighted in seeing her become excited by his treatment of her, and over many long months he had whipped, tickled, and spanked out of her any mortification she felt about the pleasures of the bedchamber. Now, three years and three months after their wedding day, she found herself largely incapable of feeling shame about the joy they took in their marriage, regardless of what they did.

"Turn around, little one," he commanded, and although his words were firm, they were also warm with affection.

She kept her arms at her side as she rotated in place to present her back to him. With quick, assured movements of his fingers he wound her cascading silver-gold tresses atop her head and used a thin leather thong to tie her hair into a tight bun. While he loved the sight of her plumage, as he liked to call it, it would prove an impediment to the business at hand if allowed to hang free.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Privy? Water?"

She shook her head and then turned slightly so she could fix him with a shy, lopsided grin. "I doubt I have enough hair to need shaving, but I am sure ... as always ... that you will nevertheless be quite thorough."

He chuckled, then led her by the hand to the black iron chain that dangled from the center of the room's ceiling. Once she was under the chain, he produced a soft strip of black wool from his pocket. Being rendered sightless was hardly a novel experience for her. In fact, if one were to include the hours spent sleeping, she spent far more time blindfolded in their bedchamber than the reverse.

She looked up at him with a trusting gaze as he wrapped the cloth over her eyes. One edge of the wool settled a few inches down her nose, the other reached nearly to the top of her brow, and she knew from long experience that the blindfold would not become dislodged no matter how vigorously she moved her head. She would miss the sight of her husband's face and body, but the darkness was a thrilling intoxicant that forced her to focus on her other senses.

After the leather of the manacles had been adroitly strapped around her wrists and ankles, her husband tugged upon them to ensure that they were tightly buckled. He raised her hands over her head and with several wrought-iron clips secured the manacles to the chain hanging from the ceiling. She squirmed a bit and pulled against the securing bracket ... perhaps if she were an elephant she might have a hope of yanking it free. The bracket could easily support her entire weight, a fact that she could confidently attest to after evenings spent suspended upside-down by her ankles.

Her legs he nudged wide apart so that the cuffs around her ankles could be fettered to copper rings inset within pockets carved into the stonework of the floor. She scarcely could imagine what explanation her husband had given the masons for making such a modification to their lord's chambers, but he was Lord ... he needn't give a reason if he did not wish to.

She tested the restraints on her ankles and smiled when she felt how secure they were. Her husband moved away from her, and a few seconds later she heard a clicking sound as he worked the mechanism of the chain. Upwards her hands were yanked until she was pulled taut. Her lower ribs stood out in stark relief, her feet curled against the floor, and soon she was fixed so tightly that she could do little more than sway and squirm. When he was satisfied with her positioning, he locked the mechanism. The manacles secured on her wrists were wide and well-padded, and the extra support the chain offered eased the strain on her legs considerably. While the position in which she was fixed was ungainly and undoubtedly looked painful, in point of fact it was not even particularly uncomfortable ... so long as it did not go on for too long.

She waggled her fingers, swayed a bit in her restraints, and quivered in anticipation when she heard his approaching footsteps.

"I am glad to see you have put on weight this fall," he said as he ran his hands over her tightly stretched breasts and stomach ... a motion that elicited a gasping shiver from her. "Winter is nearly here, and you know how important it is to me that you take care of yourself."

And you ensure that I do ...

"I know," she whispered. On their wedding day, she had come to him as a skeletal, wasted figure. The knobs of her joints protruded through pale, parchment-thin skin, and her lank hair glimmered and shone only because her handmaidens had rubbed it with oil. Even now, over three years later, she remained thin enough that he constantly worried about her diet. "I am trying."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and patted her bare bottom. "And you will keep trying, little one."

She nodded in response and hoped that he would turn his attention to the soft, needful parts of her body that her widespread, stretched legs gave him easy access to. Instead, to her profound disappointment he moved away. She heard a scraping sound as he dragged a stool and a small table in front of her. The razor and his other tools would be on the table, she knew, and she tightened her hands into fists and shifted a bit in the chains in anticipation. Her squirming elicited a swift rebuke along with a reminder that she was to remain still, and then he began his work.

The oil he rubbed on her body smelled faintly of spices she did not recognize and citrus fruit that was unknown to her ... her husband seemed to take special delight in finding new scents with which to coat her body. He began with her neck and shoulders, his hands were strong and firm as he worked the oil into her flesh, and though she could not see herself she imagined that inch by inch her skin began to glow by the light of the candles and the fire of the hearth. After her shoulders, he worked down her torso, and though he was adept at tickling her, he took care to ensure that he provoked no squirms while he coated her armpits and her flanks. He oiled her breasts as well, of course, and his kneading, swirling fingers provoked her nipples into hardening into twin points. Small moans escaped her lips as he cupped the soft flesh of her stretched chest, but sadly, his hands didn't linger. This part of the evening was intended to be functional, not amorous. From time to time, however, he brushed himself against her so that she could feel the hardness of his cock beneath the thick fabric of his trousers. It was a teasing sensation all its own, particularly after she had spent two days and nights desperate for release.

They talked while he oiled her, and she treasured such conversations. He asked about her day, about the gossip she had heard ... he always assured her that he was sincere in his interest in regards to the doings of the households of his lords and ladies ... and he inquired deeply of both her writing and her weaving. The easy manner with which he referenced prior discussions on the same topics had long ago convinced her that he did care about her thoughts, her opinions, and her preferences. Though they spoke often, of course, it was different when she knew that he would be devoting several hours of his direct and unceasing attention towards her needs, without any chance of obligation forcing him elsewhere. His hands lingered on her while they spoke and he used the tips of his fingers with knowing gestures to ease the soreness from muscles that she hadn't even realized were troubling her until he had begun to massage away the lingering hurts. After he'd spent no fewer than five minutes coaxing a particularly painful and tense spot in her neck into a state of relaxation, she found herself smiling at the irony of him fretting over any discomfort she was experiencing when within the hour he likely would be administering some measure of painful discipline to her helpless body.

There was another purpose to shaving every inch of her form besides the obvious one, of course ... it afforded him the opportunity to inspect her skin very carefully. He had once conducted such examinations each and every night, but eventually, when some measure of trust had been established between them, he limited himself to these bi-weekly searches. Not that he generally didn't keep an eye on her body as a matter of habit, but her entire life she had been very clever in finding ways of hurting herself that were not immediately apparent. If her husband was determined about nothing else, he was determined that the only marks to be found on her would be the ones that he had made ... she scarcely recognized herself anymore, he had worked so tirelessly to repair the cracks in her spirit and give her a foundation of self-worth.

As he began to work the oil into her stretched limbs he patted each of her hands and feet in turn, and she correspondingly extended her fingers and toes so that he could look for telltale clots of blood beneath the nails ... by doing so he made sure that she had not pressed any needles deep into the quick. When she was a child, she'd found sewing needles to be an excellent way to silence her anxious worries without creating wounds that might draw the attention of her minders or her parents. Her husband had put an end to that, as he had so much else.

He ran his hands down her sides and checked her armpits as he worked, not only to rub the oil deep into the skin along her flanks, but to also confirm that her fingernails had not scratched any new scrapes or gouges in the spots where a network of old, faded scars were bunched. Of course, he checked her legs carefully as well. The front of her upper thighs were banded with a dense pattern of thin, raised white lines ... scars left by a sharp blade wielded by a girl who knew of no other way to make herself feel brave. After all, surely a princess strong enough to wound herself in such a way was strong enough to overcome being the constant subject of mockery and object of disappointment ... at least, that was what she had once believed.

Her husband labored unceasingly to rid her of such notions, and for the most part, had succeeded. In truth, his checking her like this hadn't been necessary for a long while, but he wanted to be sure. Not only did she not mind, she reveled in the feel of his fingers on her body and felt a sense of relief at how much he cared. She would be regularly searched in this manner indefinitely, he had told her, because they both wanted to be sure ... and though her opinion on the matter was somewhat irrelevant, the truth was that she could not have agreed more.

Once she was, for the most part, well-oiled, he began with slow steady strokes of the razor to shave her skin, stopping as needed to clean the razor with gentle taps in the water-filled bowl. Each gliding motion collected both hair and oil, and the many hours she had practiced standing motionless served her well during experiences such as this. Her husband was skilled with blades of every sort, but he needed her help to avoid cutting her. After all, the razor in his hands was sharp. In particular, when he worked around her slippery breasts ... he was always amused at the responsiveness of her nipples to his touch ... she very much hoped that he was extremely cautious with every flick of the well-honed edge.

Though he never spoke of it directly, she knew that one of the reasons he performed this task himself, rather than leaving it to her, was that she could not be trusted alone with steel. When her husband or others were present, she was permitted to cut her food, sew, and use scissors to trim threads while at the loom, but early in their marriage he had pronounced that she would never again so much as touch anything with a point or a sharpened edge when she was alone. She readily agreed, and now, years later, she had reached the conclusion that the prohibition was unlikely to ever be lifted ... which was probably for the best.

Sometimes, she wondered when he ran his fingers over her body if he was haunted by the sight of her legs on their wedding night. He had coaxed her from her hiding spot, coerced from her an admission that she did not wish to disrobe for reasons besides being frightened of the marital bed, and then had taken her trembling, terrified form into his arms and told her that he would be patient, but that his wife would be honest with him. Eventually, she'd pulled up her gown to reveal the makeshift bandages wrapped around her thighs, and he had stared in horror when he yanked aside the blood-soaked cloth to reveal the slashes beneath. There was no anger in their chamber that night. Instead, he held her long hours and spoke to her of how different her life would be from now on. He assured her that he was going to make sure that she never did such things ever again, she'd shivered and tried to believe him, and when he grew tired of her refusing to open her eyes, he blindfolded her. Once rendered sightless she'd immediately lain relaxed and still in his arms.

After he'd properly bandaged her, other ... happier ... moments between them soon followed.

He had completely shaved her neck, back, torso, and lower legs before he began to oil her hips, inner thighs, and groin. The lips of her glistening, dewy cleft had separated in anticipation of receiving attention, she bit her lower lip as his hands lingered near her sex, and judging by his chuckle it was obvious that he had noticed her excitement. He patted her rear, kissed her belly, and whispered, "Such a sweet treasure of a wife you are."

An expression of gratitude at his words left her lips, but what she really wanted was to beg him to grant relief to the frustrated, throbbing bud that he had spent the last two nights repeatedly coaxing to the edge of bliss only to leave wanting. Seldom had he been so relentless.