The Captive Princess Ch. 01

She accepted that every rule, every punishment, every demand he made of her had a purpose, though sometimes she did not immediately glean his intention. Day by day, week by week, he had encouraged her to grow stronger and less fearful, through methods that ranged from the direct to the devious. Tickling when she'd been sullen, quiet, or inclined towards hiding did wonders to increase her energy and motivate her to socialize. Banishment to the corner with unpleasant vegetables lodged in her mouth served to remind her to think and speak well of herself. Even less pleasant was when he stuffed wedges of itching, stinging ginger root into sensitive places of her body ... though she could not deny that such treatment never failed to result in her being more punctual in attending functions requiring her presence.

Truth be told, being whipped, spanked, tickled, and subjected to an endless variety of disciplinary measures was absolutely not the inducement to improve her behavior that her husband believed it to be, as she was typically more enthusiastic towards receiving a fierce cropping than avoiding one. No, rather it was the shame she felt when her husband was disappointed with her that provided the true motivation. She might often be tempted to incur a punishment just for the sheer thrill of receiving it, but never did she want to see him stare at her with reproach in his eyes.

Once he'd oiled the most pleasurable spots of her body, with strong hands he helped her keep motionless sensitive flesh so that he could shave each pale, private patch of skin. The razor swept with gentle, short strokes in a steady rhythm and the feel of his fingers and the now-warmed steel dancing along the edges of her sex was a slow, tortuous pleasure all its own. Conversation between them ceased, as did her breathing, until her husband had finished removing every stubble of hair from the crevice of her bottom and the lips of her sex.

He informed her that he was finished with the razor, a small thump indicated that he had set the red-handled blade aside, and she exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed muscles that had been tensed for long minutes.

"I took the liberty of reading some of your most recent poems," he informed her in a conversational tone completely at odds with the reality of her present circumstances. "I am not much of a judge of such things, but I found them beautiful ... particularly that one about sunrise over the valleys. Seneschal Harwin was impressed, as well."

The irony of him speaking matter-of-factly in regards to her poetry while she vibrated with need right in front of him was not lost on her, but she managed to divert her thoughts away from the throbbing of her sex long enough to consider a reply that would not make her sound petulant and upset. "You showed my poems to someone else? Husband, I would have greatly preferred that you ask me first ... those were not intended for others to hear."

"I think you're forgetting something, little one," he informed her in a determined, but kind, manner. Not so kind, however, was the firm slap he placed on one of the cheeks of her bottom.

She could not help but utter a surprised squeak as she flinched from the sharp, stinging pain of the blow.

"Now then," her husband continued, "who owns you?"

Such a question usually meant that the two of them would work through a familiar series of inquiries and responses the repetition of which never failed to calm her nerves, envelop her in a sense of love, and make her feel protected ... most especially from herself.

He asked this question of her often, and the reply that left her lips was both well-practiced and entirely honest. "You own me, husband. Well and truly, I am yours."

She could hear his body stir as he stood and leaned in close enough that his breath wafted along the side of her head and neck. "That's right," he whispered. "Every inch of your skin and every ounce of your flesh belongs entirely to me, and that means that every idea in your head and every word that passes your lips is mine to do with as I choose." He stepped to the side and with affectionate caresses rubbed away the lingering discomfort in the spot of her body he had just struck. "After all, if I own a cow, the milk is mine, too."

Ugh.

She crinkled her nose and frowned. "Husband, I do not enjoy being compared to your cow."

He chuckled, while he chuckled he tickled the underside of one of her breasts, and in response she squealed and uselessly tried to squirm away. "That is fair," he admitted, though she could barely hear him over the hysterical laughter being forced from her lips. When he finally ceased with the tickling she hung in her chains and gasped great heaves of air in an effort to catch her breath. "Now then," her husband continued in a placid tone while she tried to compose herself, "Seneschal Harwin selected a half dozen pieces from your collection of writings and forwarded copies to the Great Library so that men who are skilled in judging such things could offer their opinions. I received word last week that they were so impressed that two of your efforts were selected to be incorporated within their chronicles ... including that poem about the sunset."

Husband, I am not sure that I like what you have done.

"My love," she responded without taking the necessary time to consider and measure her words, "the learned men of the Great Library likely found my writing to represent mindless drivel, and I would guess that they only offered praise to avoid giving offense to the Lord of the East and his princess of a wife." As soon as the statement had left her lips, she winced with regret, her manacled hands twitched fearfully in their bindings, and her body stiffened in its chains. She felt very exposed with her legs sprawled wide, her eyes blinded, and her undoubtedly furious husband gazing upon her nude body.

I know better than to talk about myself in such a way ... he will be very wroth with me, and deservedly so.

She felt his looming presence as he stepped nearer, and then felt the touch of his fingers as he grasped her trembling chin in a broad, strong hand, and tilted upwards her blindfolded face. "Little one," he said in a voice that was the rasp of steel over a sharpening stone, "you are well aware of the fact that you are never allowed to speak ill of yourself in such a way. Regrettably, there is nothing I can do to prevent you from thinking such horrid thoughts, but I can and will keep any such nonsense from being voiced from your lips. You are beautiful, you have a good heart, you have a quick, observant wit and a talent for wordplay, and I will continue to do whatever I must to make you realize these truths."

She hung in her chains and in an attempt to placate him replied with quick, hasty words. "I spoke without thinking, please forgive me."

He tightened his grip on her chin. "The Seneschals of the Great Library have seen thousands of lords come and go. You can trust that they care nothing about my pride or your sensibilities, and if they decide that your writing has merit then that is the truth. You can also trust this, Penny," he said in an ominous tone that made her knees quake, her sex tremble, and her heart flutter, "if you disparage yourself again this evening, tomorrow you will be spending an hour in your corner with a freshly peeled onion jammed between your teeth. Do I make myself clear?"

An hour?!

"Yes, I understand!" she replied with as much of a nod as she could manage with his hand clenched upon her jaw. The threat of the onion was nothing new, she had been disciplined in such a manner on many occasions ... though less frequently over the past year ... and she had absolutely no desire to repeat the experience. In fact, she considered herself lucky that he was giving her a second chance.

He must be in a good mood tonight.

He removed his hand from her chin and good cheer returned to his voice. "Now then, your poetry will be shared with the realm because that is what I have decided will happen, and the marvelous tapestry that you are weaving will ultimately be hung with a place of honor in the Nest's dining hall because that is my will."

"Thank you," she replied. He kissed her then, and as his lips touched hers, her worries evaporated and she felt suffused with happiness ... happiness, and a growing desire that he turn his attention towards her wide-spread legs. When the kiss ended, even though she knew she should let the subject drop, she could not help but carefully voice further thoughts on the matter. "The poems, though, I really am embarrassed." She began to shake, only a bit, at the notion that people would know her inner thoughts.

"They are poems, not confessions, and you are deserving of praise," he reassured her. "Your writings are beautiful, and it breaks my heart that you burned so much of your work from before we were married. Be strong enough to let people appreciate your quality."

It had always been easier to reveal the truths of her heart when she could not see, and she doubted that she could have voiced the next words from her lips if she was looking upon her husband's face. "That is nice of you to say, but you know that being strong is difficult for me."

She knew that he would not mind that comment, because honesty about herself did not constitute disparagement.

His voice was loving and thick with concern as he replied, "Sweetling, you are stronger than a knight in many ways. Tonight, your schedule in this bedchamber includes being blindfolded, bound, teased, shaved, whipped, bathed, and finally ... bred. Do you think any knight has the courage to bear such treatment, let alone find enjoyment in it?"

The imagery his words conjured could not help but make her laugh hysterically, and the links of the iron bindings rattled as she convulsed in mirth. He laughed along with her, and she was reminded of all the times he had told her that her laughter was the sweetest thing he had ever heard.

"Thank you," she said once she had calmed.

"I have decided," he added, and she suspected she might not like what he was about to say, "that it would be wonderful if from time to time you let your friends hear your work read aloud, and I am sure that you agree with me."

She was not at all convinced that such an idea was wonderful, but she nodded for his benefit.

"Penelope," he reassured her, "I would not surprise you with having your poems recited in open court ... we would discuss it and you would be free to disagree."

Thank the gods.

She nodded but did not trust herself to make any further reply.

They often entertained on the balcony outside their solar or in the smaller dining halls, and she'd grown fond of certain friends and several household knights. In time, with her husband's coaxing, she'd learned to enjoy conversation and music ... so long as such gatherings were of a limited duration. If her eyes became downcast or she shied from chatter, her husband would touch her lightly upon the back of her neck to remind her of the need to be social, and if she seemed troubled, he would lay his hand upon her wrist to reassure her that he was there, that he cared about her needs, and that she was not alone. His nudges and caresses were precious to her, and she often thought of herself as a boat being steered by his hands upon her rudder.

She heard the scrape of wood on stone as he moved the table away and positioned the stool directly in front of her, and her breath rasped out of her lungs when he laid a coaxing, promising hand on her glistening sex. Her cunt throbbed and pulsed as he cupped it in his fingers, and her entire body felt as though it wanted to melt into a hot, wet heap upon his palm.

"Now then," he said in a serious tone, "I want you to be honest with me, Penelope. Is there anything that you need to admit?"

He asked her this question on occasion, and on nearly every such instance she was hiding something from her husband. Whether he could tell because of her manner or because he kept a closer eye on her than she realized was a mystery she had not yet managed to solve, but he was almost always right.

He is right this time, too. I should tell him the truth.

"There is," she admitted with quavering words as a tremulous uncertainty flared in her stomach.

"Go on," he said in an encouraging, knowing fashion.

Earlier in their marriage, she had lied on occasion to such questions, of course. He always knew when she lied and she had quickly learned that she ended up happier if she was honest. It was only when she had finally been truthful with her husband about what she enjoyed, about what she needed, that everything became better ... she never believed that such a happy life could be possible for her.

My husband deserves an honest answer.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes behind the blindfold, and began. "Two nights ago in the bath ... after you had given me that gift from across the seas ... the bottled potion that smells of flowers and has the little chunks of white rock that make bubbles ..." Her words trailed off, but she mustered her courage and carried on. "The bubbles felt so good, and when you left to use the privy, I couldn't help it. I ... I touched myself. Not for too long, and I felt ashamed the entire time, and ... and ..."

She was making excuses, and a lady should not make excuses.

"Continue," he said, and he sounded neither surprised nor angry ... instead, he sounded hurt. The guilt of hearing that tone in his voice hurt her ways no crop ever could. "Out with it, tell me the extent of your disobedience."

"I didn't go too far," she assured him. "I stopped before I achieved release, I swear."

I had to grab hold of the edges of the tub until you returned in order to keep my clumsy, fumbling fingers ... which have had almost no practice in these matters ... away from my sex.

Only once in the past year had she pleasured herself to relief in defiance of her husband's prerogatives over her body. She'd seen him training shirtless in the courtyard and later, after she'd admitted to him what she had done, he had been flattered at the depth of her lust for him ... which unfortunately had not stayed his hand. The resulting correction she'd received had left her unable to sit down without the use of a pillow for a few days.

She heard her husband fumble with his trousers and a few seconds later something was being held aloft beneath her nose. She cautiously inhaled and recognized the scent immediately.

That's the bottle of scented potion!

Her eyes fluttered open beneath the blindfold, she gasped in shock, and then she exclaimed, "You already knew!"

"Of course I knew!" He laughed for a good long time and she imagined that he was shaking his head in amusement at her surprise. "Did you truly think that I would not notice your guilty expression, frightened posture, and white-knuckled grip on the rim of the tub? I know your sly ways quite well, little one, and I pay rather close attention to everything involving what lies between your legs. I am disappointed, but I am also proud that you had the strength to put an end to your misadventure without my prompting." He stood and kissed her again on the cheek. "Penelope, did you think that you spent the last two nights going to bed a sweaty, teased, frustrated princess because of a whim on my part? No, it was because you had done something wrong and failed to tell me about it."

I should have known that there was a purpose behind leaving me wanting for repeated nights.

"I would have much preferred a whipping," she remonstrated him. "Husband, these past few days have been torture."

His voice was kind, but also firm, when he replied, "If you had told me the truth at any point before I dragged it out of you tonight, within minutes I would have had you on your back with your gown gathered about your waist and your knees spread so that I could grant you relief from your misery. My sweet wife, I want to help you, but you make that so much harder if you keep secrets. Your secrets are sometimes dangerous, Penelope, and that is why you aren't allowed to have them."

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"I forgive you," he said, and he sounded so sincere that her worries eased. He leaned forward, this time kissed her on the mouth, and she desperately wished her hands were free of chains and manacles so that she could hold him.

She would still be disciplined, of course, but it was her own fault and she deserved her punishment. More importantly, as she reminded her husband whenever necessary, leniency on his part when she acted inappropriately did not represent a kindness. Rather, it tended to leave her anxious and uncertain.

He broke off the kiss, sat back down, and rubbed her slippery, pulsing sex. She moaned, arched her back, and as much as the chains allowed tried to press herself into his hand. "Who owns this?"

Her response instinctively left her lips the instant after the question was voiced. "You do."

He tapped her behind with his other hand, and upon feeling his touch her thoughts patterned themselves into the familiar sing-song litany of responses expected of her. "And who owns your oft-buggered arse?" he asked.

Not nearly often enough.

"You," she assured him. "Most especially, only you."

His free hand next reached up to run a finger up her chin and along her trembling lower lip. "And your mouth?"

"You own that as well."

Now his voice grew harsher, more like the lord whom she had seen hand down pronouncements and justice of all sorts. "And who is the only person who is allowed to touch you and make you feel good?"

"Just you," she gushed. "Forever and always, nobody besides you."

"Then let me fulfill my duties as your husband," he said, and his voice had taken on a wheedling, pleading edge that she seldom heard from him. "When you pleasure yourself, it shames me and makes a mockery of my right to see to your needs however I see fit. There is never a reason, ever, for your fingers to be where they are not allowed. When, my beautiful, but at times willful, wife, will you finally cease this sort of disobedience?"

She gave the only honest response that she could. "I will try to do better."

"I know you will, my love, but the important thing is that you are honest with me." He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her stomach, just below her belly button, and the nearness of his lips to the spot of her body that yearned for them made her knees quake. "I realize that there will be mistakes, but remember, dishonesty is not a mistake, dishonesty is a choice."

"I will try to always honest with you," she promised. "I swear."

"Good," he said. "I am happy that you told the truth ... even though I am disappointed that it took you two days to do so." She could hear him settle back on the stool as he rubbed her sex with a thoughtful hand. "Now then, you have broken a rule ... not one of the three most important ones, but a rule nonetheless. Tonight, you will receive ten lashes while you are across the bench, but before that happens you will be rewarded for being honest."

She knew what the reward was likely to be, and she swayed in her chains and bit her lower lip while her cunt throbbed and ached.

I hope my reward comes soon ... I have suffered in need of release for days now. And to think if I had just immediately admitted what I had done I would not have been teased at all.

"First, though," he added, "anything else that you need to confess?"

She wracked her brain as she considered the question. Eventually, she replied, "I have not finished all my meals these past two weeks, but surely you cannot expect me to enjoy every dish? Besides, the cooks put far too much on my plate."