The Captive Princess Ch. 02

CHAPTER TWO

Buggered

Once standing on the rug set in the corner of the room, she put her feet together at a practiced distance a few feet from where the two walls met, crossed her wrists at the small of her back, and raised her chin. Over the years she had memorized every crack in the stones of the cozy nook, and she could likely draw each of jagged lines in the rock with her eyes closed. Sometimes, to give herself something to do during longer periods of silent, unmoving banishment to her corner, she had tried naming the sparkling quartz imperfections in the granite. Standing still sounded easy enough, in theory, but her husband had conditioned her body to expect the pleasure of his touch soon after being released ... which meant that she often grew anxious, and anxiousness was not conducive to remaining motionless. Shifting her legs, swaying, turning her head, swiveling her eyes from side to side, or moving her crossed arms would typically incur an immediate, and painful, correction.

Time in her corner always gave her a chance to think and reflect with nothing expected of her in the way of conversation, and since it was preferable to conjure up thoughts of pleasant things while she stared at the stonework, her musings often turned to one or more details of her admittedly unusual marriage. She recognized that it was quite unlikely that too many other ladies dealt with the sorts of daily travails and onerous demands expected of her ... not the least of which was spending meaningful periods of time in an attentive posture, wrists crossed behind her back, staring at walls.

There is a reason for everything that he does.

Those reasons were generally for her benefit, and she had realized early on that the endless rules she was required to follow were specifically intended to keep her thoughts and emotions harnessed in a productive direction. He pleasured her vigorously, frequently, and with care for the needs of her body ... she had absolutely no cause for complaint in that regard ... but he also strictly regimented her day-to-day life and burdened her with exacting mandates that he knew appealed to her desires and thus served to keep her wet and needy. It was impossible for her not to appreciate the cleverness of his stratagem. After all, if she filled her hours obsessing over the thought of her husband's head between her thighs or his cock in her arse then she had no time or energy to dwell on harmful notions.

In the end, people want what they are denied, and with her mind constantly directed towards the needs of her sex ... which she was never allowed to touch ... he kept her well distracted. It was ruthlessly simple, extraordinarily effective, and she had begged him on occasion to promise that he would never grow tired of such pastimes. If he seemed hesitant or unenthusiastic, she reminded him that he had so efficiently arranged her day-to-day life that she couldn't even remember the last time she had experienced one of her shaking, paralyzing, fear-fits. That sort of reminder usually provided him with fresh motivation, as the sight of her vibrating with terror, unable to speak or move for long minutes, was not something that he ever wished to see again.

While she counted the cracks in the stone yet again and waited, she heard him rustling in one of the larger cabinets in the room. The barest of smiles curled the corners of her mouth, for she knew very well what item he would soon be assembling. The bench, the heart of which was an old weapons rack composed of two triangular braces on either end with connecting beams running between, had been modified by her lord husband's own hands early in the marriage. Now it featured padded boards that protruded from one side, a wide top the thick wooden beam of which was covered by folded hides bound to the wood by a long piece of leather, and thick, sturdy iron loops that had been secured with spikes driven deep into the wood.

It was perfectly designed for a wife to be bent over and secured with feet, knees, and arms fixed wide apart.

As she heard him assemble the bench by sliding and securing the brackets of the frame, it grew difficult to manage her excitement ... after all, she was standing nude and glistening in her corner while her husband prepared the scaffold on which she'd be tied. Her arousal, which had not at all been satisfied by the single moment of relief that had been thus far provided to her, grew to unmanageable proportions when she heard him buckle two of the thick wooden legs of the bench to the copper rings set in the floor. She rubbed her slick thighs together in a surreptitious manner and hoped he would not see.

He saw.

The pronouncement of her punishment followed immediately thereafter, as it always did. "That's three lashes more for squirming when you are supposed to be standing in a focused and calm manner as befits a princess of your station," her husband informed her as she squeezed her eyes shut and froze in place. "You're up to fifteen strokes now, Penny, and if you think I will not add more if you continue misbehaving, you are quite mistaken."

Fifteen?

Fifteen was a lot. Her naked haunches felt very exposed as she stood in the corner, not just from her positioning, but also from the knowledge of the ordeal that her pale skin would soon be subjected to. She enjoyed a good, strong whipping as much as the next woman, but there were diminishing returns to such pleasures. In an effort to spare her rear any additional punishment, she resolved to hold still and not disappoint her husband further. This corner was her quiet spot, she would remain there until her legs gave way or until he came for her, and she imagined herself bound as securely as if she were wrapped in chains or cocooned in mortar.

Spending time in her corner efficiently calmed her spirit and quelled her destructive impulses, but when it proved insufficient, he had other methods.

After making a frightful journey by land and sea so that they might attend the latest noble wedding, she had experienced the worst fear-fit since her childhood when she realized that, as a princess of the royal family, she'd need to dance in front of the assembled nobles of the realm ... including her parents and siblings. When she'd calmed enough to attend dinner, she hardly ate a bite and hid her eyes to avoid conversation. Her husband could see that matters would grow worse if she was not taken in hand, so he had excused them from the evening's revelries, marched her to the chamber assigned for their use, and trussed her like a lamb for slaughter. Her hands and ankles were lashed together behind her, her hair was plaited into a braid and tied so tightly to her cinched big toes so that she was bent like a bow, her used smallclothes were bound into her mouth with his belt, and once she could do nothing except flinch, sweat, and whimper, he'd endeavored to teach her that she had strength and willpower far greater than she was willing to admit to herself.

His torment of her had been unrelenting. Tickling, gagging, spanking, repeated use of her mouth and sex, forcing her to repeated moments of bliss until the pleasure of release threatened to become unbearable ... he left no marks that would be visible when she was clothed and caused her no injuries, but everything else he could think of, he tried. Eventually, she found herself drifting inside her own body, disconnected from her fears, memories, and concerns, until finally she realized that she was being quite silly. A few dances while she fixed her eyes on her husband's face was nothing compared to what she had been experiencing for the past several hours.

She had opened her eyes behind the blindfold, he sensed a change in her and removed the gag, and she told him that he had given her enough strength to endure the wedding and all that would follow. He could tell she was telling the truth ... he could always tell ... and he had unbound her, cradled her near the hearth for a time, and then let her sleep. The day of the wedding, her mother and father had stared with visible astonishment at her poise on the dance floor, and she'd never felt such pride as when she saw their beaming faces.

Of course, she knew that her husband was not a selfless martyr who acted for her benefit and for no other reason, and she allowed herself a grin as she thought of how much obvious pleasure he took in exercising his authority over her. While she recognized that not everything they did was to his taste ... and he likely tired of the endless work required to maintain the routines that kept her mind at ease ... she was also quite certain that her subjugation appealed to his nature in much the same way that it appealed to her own. After all, her family's dynasty in decades past had forced the Lords of the East to bend the knee, and it would only be natural for her husband to correspondingly take some measure of satisfaction in activities such as binding the silver-haired daughter of his king and queen into a blindfolded, freshly-spanked, rosy-bottomed bundle so that she might enthusiastically suckle upon his manhood. She did not mind ... let her husband enjoy their pastimes, for she begrudged him nothing. She certainly was long past any shame in finding pleasure wherever and however she could, and she wanted nothing less for him.

So deep in thought was she that when her husband laid his hand on her shoulder she flinched in surprise.

She dropped her hands to her sides as he turned her towards the assembled bench that he had chained to the floor, and she could not help but feel a flutter of trepidation at the sight. He silently moved her forward ... they were long past conversation in moments like this ... and she trembled as she walked. All the spots of the bench that her body would be touching were padded and lined with leather, which was thoughtful of him, but it was still an ugly, solid piece of hewn timbers that had been created specifically for the purpose of keeping her helpless while she was punished and used.

It was a pity that they had to keep it in storage when not in use.

He aided her in standing on the two small platforms set wide apart on the bench. They were just the right size for her tiny feet, and sturdily constructed enough that they could have borne someone far heavier than she without flexing. The top of the bench, which could use more padding beneath the leather, in her view, was the exact right height for her to be able to lean over, drape her body down the opposite side, and just barely reach the legs of the bench with her arms. The platforms on which she stood, conveniently enough, placed her rear at the perfect height for him to avail himself of without needing to stoop or crouch.

Once she was positioned, with practiced hand he began securing her to the bench. Bands of leather fitted through grooves in the wood secured her feet, manacled ankles, and shins to the frame of the bench, straps around her knees were fitted through iron loops and pulled tight so that her knees were spread wide ... a position that could not help but separate the white, milky globes of her arse in a fashion her husband likely found appealing. More straps around her thighs kept those spread, as well, and a wide leather belt went over her back and was cinched on the beam on which she leaned.

She squeaked a bit as her husband pulled the belt tight enough to ensure that she could not separate her body from the top of the bench or shift in either direction.

He circled to the front of the bench, lifted her head up by the chin, and gave her a long lingering kiss. After that, he used the manacles fixed to her wrists to stretch her arms down and out until they were at their limits, and then he secured them to a second set of iron rings with yet more leather straps. Her fate was well sealed at that point, for she had no freedom to move so much as an inch in any direction, and with her limbs spread and tied so tightly she lacked even the leverage to squirm effectively. Her breasts he gave a few loving strokes, and either due to pity or affection he spared her aching, erect nipples the biting, wooden clips that he often affixed at moments like this.

I will have to thank him for that later.

She felt so vulnerable that the sensation was almost indescribable. Arse and cunt were on display between her spread, elongated cheeks, she could do no more than feebly thrash in her bindings, and if she said or did anything that displeased her husband, her bottom could not have been in a more ideal position to administer a thrashing. And yet ... he was not quite finished. He inserted a thick wooden dowel wrapped in thick leather between her teeth and then secured the dowel by looping a cord over one end, wrapping the cord behind her head, and then tying the cord to the other end of the dowel so that she could not spit the bit from her mouth. Finally, he tied two long lengths of cord to the ends of the dowel ... these cords, she knew from past experience, not only looked like the reins of a horse's bit, they functioned in exactly the same manner. Once the cords had been tied, he used the two reins to drag her head steadily upwards. When she was staring straight ahead with her head angled at what her husband judged to be the proper height, he fixed the reins to the top of the bench so that she could not lower her head nor move it from side to side.

Fixing her head in such a fashion was a rather devilish idea on his part. Not only did the gag make it impossible for her to articulate words, the manner in which the dowel's reins were tied kept her from hanging her head or relaxing her neck. If he had dragged her head upwards any farther the position would have been unbearable, but he did have a preternatural skill at discerning her limits.

"How does that feel?" he asked her in a somewhat rhetorical fashion as he ran his hand along her smooth, oiled flank.

She grunted some sort of reply through the dowel wedged between her teeth and tried, as best she could, to strain her leg nearer to his hand. Her arousal dripped down her leg, he slid two fingers into her exposed, throbbing sex and explored her depths at his leisure, and she grunted and twitched with disappointment when he pulled his fingers free and wiped her own juices on her back. The muffled pleading that she managed to voice despite the bit holding her teeth apart reached a fever pitch, her husband rubbed her sex with the palm of his hand, being careful not to possibly overstimulate her to release, and she shuddered and moaned and prayed that he would take her then and there, just as she was, and grant her hot, swollen nub the attention it so desperately needed.

"Soon," he whispered, which dashed her hopes that he might punish her after. "You have earned these fifteen strokes, haven't you?"

Nodding wasn't really possible given her present circumstances, but she jerked her head against the reins and tried to voice her agreement.

He ran the leather of the tawse along the pale, smooth skin of her back ... she hadn't even heard him pick it up ... and she could not help but tense as the implement teased at her flesh. This would hurt, she knew that, but the pain would take her mind to places that she'd never been able to reach any other way. She needed to reach those places, needed him to help her, needed the pain and the pleasure so that she could forget everything else and just be.

"I'll count them off so that you don't lose track," he informed her.

She closed her eyes, whimpered in fear, and with a whistling sound the first slash of the tawse struck the full width of her stretched, white bottom, each strand of leather slicing a blistering line of agony all its own. A scream escaped her lips, all breath rushed from her lungs, and she shook and struggled against the straps as burning, fiery pain erupted in her backside. Every muscle clenched and she tried to wrench herself free, but she would not be going anywhere until she'd received fourteen more brutal strokes. Her husband somehow never drew blood, nor did the whip ever strike her sex, yet the blows never failed to leave her in agony. On and on the pain went while she bit down on the dowel and let tears flow from her eyes.

Gods, does that hurt!

"One," he announced in a calm, dispassionate voice.

The tawse whistled a second time through the air and the pain, if anything, was worse. It overlaid the first slash and she imagined across her entire bottom lines of pure, agonizing fire now blazed, angry and sullen, in the candlelight. She yanked her hands against the manacles and let hoarse sobs escape her throat while her legs vibrated and tensed wildly against the bands binding her to the bench. Her jaws clenched so hard against the leather-covered gag in her mouth that she feared her teeth might snap, her fingers splayed helplessly, and she desperately tried to wriggle free.

Her efforts did not even so much as loosen any of the straps.

"Two," he called out while she howled and trembled.

He hadn't been pleased to learn of the sort of pain that she needed ... not at first ... but he'd sensed her disappointment with his efforts during such play early in their marriage and finally strapped her to the bed and tickled from her the truth. Half-hearted punishments, she admitted, served only to frustrate and confuse her. Once she'd revealed this shameful, dark secret, he had not judged her, as she had feared he might. Instead, he had henceforth labored at his work with renewed fervor.

The third stroke came down and it was anything but half-hearted. Another scream burst forth, louder this time. Although the thick dowel did an excellent job of strangling her cries, she often wondered if she had ever been heard ... then again, her husband kept their tower free of nighttime interlopers for this very reason.

Is it too late for me to beg him for mercy?

Her thoughts drifted free of her body soon after the third stroke. She hurt so much that her mind could not take anymore, and oddly enough, everything became easier at that point. The pain remained intense, of course, but also she became aware of her sex pulsing with something that was most definitely not pain. Her nipples and cunt throbbed, her head swayed in the reins that held it upright, and she stopped fighting the straps. It was pointless anyway, for she could not escape nor even effectively struggle. Her husband continued to count out each blow he delivered, but the pain had become a bundled mass of undifferentiated agony that she felt but dimly, as though it had happened to her long ago in a dream. The whipping went on and on, for years, maybe, or only a few minutes, perhaps, but her thoughts were so detached from the hopeless ordeal that it was as if time managed to simultaneously race forward while also holding still. Whatever debts she might owe for the failings of her life, they didn't matter now, for she was paying the price for them. Her worries and guilts loosened their clawed grip on her soul and she felt a deep sense of peace as old terrors ceased troubling her.

The feeling wouldn't last, she knew that, but there was always the next whipping.

"Fifteen," he called out as he tossed the tawse aside. The wooden handle clattered to the floor, she opened her eyes ... she hadn't even realized she'd closed them ... and her mind returned to her as she took stock of her situation.

Ow.

Her entire bottom was an inferno and it would hurt for a good long while to sit, to walk, to do much of anything. The marks would be there for several days, at least, and the red, burning slashes would initially fade to pink lines, then to white creases, and finally vanish entirely. If she managed to behave, two weeks from now when he shaved her again there would be no whipping after, and this particular experience had been so painful that she found herself quite motivated to do better.