The Captive Princess Ch. 03

They had worked their way through the three most important rules that governed her life ... though there were dozens of others ... and she could feel her husband relax against the copper of the tub. "I think you are past writing down these rules as a reminder, wouldn't you agree?"

Ugh.

She furrowed her brow in distaste at the memory of repeatedly jotting down any number of the myriad strictures which governed her life whenever her husband felt she needed to be reminded of one or the other. "I have written them all down so many times," she pointed out, and she was very careful to keep any high-pitched note of whining out of her voice. "Please, husband, no more."

He laughed, patted her hand, and she noticed that he had made no promises on the topic.

"Let's talk about tomorrow," he announced. "I've prepared you over the past week for the reality that I must leave the Nest before you break fast, and there are ..."

If her arms were not still folded behind her back, she would have reached down and grasped his legs with nervous fingers. "But you will return by dinner, right? You said you would." There was a nervous edge to her voice, nothing like the hysterics her husband had to deal with early in their marriage whenever the needs of lordship took him elsewhere, but she still fretted and worried whenever he was gone for long.

"I will be back by dinner," he assured her. "Now then, at breakfast, you will eat everything I have the kitchen set on your plate." His voice grew dark and threatening. "Is that understood, wife?" He reached down and rubbed her stomach. "For all we know, I may put a baby in your belly tonight."

Her body thrummed with desire at her husband's words. "I will eat."

His next words, however, tested her resolve. "Even the wedge of yellow cheese and the elk sausage."

She wrinkled her nose and could not bring herself to promise.

"Penelope ..." With the rumbling recitation of nothing except her name he managed to express a threat, a promise, and a pleading request.

"I promise I will eat the cheese and the sausage," she assured him.

But maybe not all of them.

"Good," he said happily as he raised his arm and put them on the rim of the tub. "You will go to your riding lesson, and I do not want to hear that you skipped it because of an upset stomach, or any other reason."

"I will." She'd feel the whip-marks on her behind every second that she sat the saddle, but it would be a warm, satisfying sort of pain.

She had been petrified of horses her entire life, and merely the thought of riding them had, in her youth, frightened her sufficiently that she would freeze, rooted in place, incapable of speech or movement. Her husband had eventually found a gentle, small palfrey ... scarcely more than a pony ... and had it brought to the Nest. He converted one of the largest of the lower caverns in into a makeshift, straw-covered paddock and held her on the saddle for an hour at a time while walking her in slow circles. After a week or so, she grew accustomed to the motion of the animal striding beneath her and reached the point where she was able to ride in unassisted circuits. Soon, he predicted, she'd be ready to join him on some of the easier trails in the passes below the castle. That prospect, of course, meant that she'd need to ride yet again ride the horrifying wooden lift up and down from the valley floor below. The lift petrified her, but she promised herself that she would speak nothing of her fear. Surely she could try to be brave ... at least a little ... to make her husband's life easier?

He rumbled on, "And you will see to that incident of thieving among your ladies-in-waiting. Stealing, even of something as meaningless as perfume, is a serious matter. You need to dispense justice."

"Cannot you do it?" she asked.

"Discipline of handmaidens is a lady's responsibility," reminded her, " and I have made sure that Lady Ysilla will be standing next to you the entire time." He chuckled for a moment. "She is threatening enough in countenance that she will ensure the budding young criminal in front of you remains suitably deferential. If the thief is contrite and offers restitution, she may buy a replacement bottle, apologize, and spend a month assisting the Seneschal with the rookery instead of indulging in idle pleasures with you and the other ladies of your court after dinner. If she lies and refuses to accept responsibility, she can return to Ironoaks and explain herself." He paused a moment and grinned. "Her attitude will determine how strictly she will be dealt with." He stroked the underside of one of her small, pert breasts and she trilled in delight and squirmed against his body. "In much the same way you are treated."

They both laughed, and she replied, "I will see to it."

"That sounded positively ladylike," he informed her, and pride dripped from his voice.

"Thank you."

His words grew distant as he tried to remember the remaining details of her schedule. He had tried writing such things down on prior occasions, but she wanted ... no, needed ... to hear him guide her through the day. She had tried many times to convey to him how much it eased her worries to know every morning that her itinerary had been arranged and that she need only appear at that proper place at the appointed time. "You are to take your lunch on the balcony closest to the kitchens," he finally continued. "It will be winter soon and you may as well enjoy these last days of fall while you can. Joining you will be the Lynderly girl, the Belmore daughter, your ladies in waiting, and any sworn knights whose company your companions desire and whichever musicians you wish to hear." He tapped her on the shoulder to make sure that she was paying attention to his next words. "Penny, I will most definitely check to ensure that you did not skip breakfast and lunch, and at lunch you are to drink no more than two goblets of the watered Arbor red and eat no more than one handful of the sugared walnuts that always seem to be provided at ..."

"Could it be two handfuls?" she interrupted.

He laughed for a moment, then his voice grew harsh in that special way that always made her cunt twitch and her knees grow weak. "Very well, two handfuls, but only if you have eaten your breakfast and lunch. Is that clear?"

"Yes!" She eagerly replied as she imagined the sweet crunch of the walnuts between her teeth.

He rotated her in the tub so that she was looking at him, and as he did so she raised her bruised rear off the bottom of the tub. "Now, do you feel better about my being gone tomorrow?

"So much better," she assured him. "Thank you. I know that I require so much more work than a wife should."

He sighed, kissed her cheek, and shook his head. "Will this sort of nonsense from you never cease? You know how much I adore you. I could not imagine my life without you."

She looked at him with sad, purple eyes. "You are so good to me."

"After what you have been through, you deserve a lifetime of happiness, my love." He sat up straighter in the tub, reached over the lip, and pulled close a bucket in which various cleaning supplies both mundane and exotic rested. "Now, before this water goes completely cold, let's get you cleaned."

She lowered her arms from behind her back and he proceeded to lather, scrub, and with soft towels wash the crevices and curves of her body until every trace of oil, grime, and dirt was gone. He positioned her as needed so that he could reach all of the difficult-to-reach spots, and predictably she moaned and gasped when he worked the soap with determined, sure caresses between her legs and near the rosebud of her arse. Her eyes fluttered, her sex throbbed with need, and she could not help but try to press her bottom against his hand in an effort to induce him to greater efforts. He chuckled at her brazen display, tilted her head up so he could give her a long lingering kiss, and resumed cleaning her.

When her skin shone pale and clean, with nary a hint of accumulated filth, he pinched her nostrils closed with his thumb and forefinger and lowered her head several times beneath the bathwater. Though she could not see it, she imagined that her silver-gold hair floated like a fine lace atop the surface. Her husband then used on her flowing locks a gentle, cleansing soap followed by a flower-scented, creamy substance that gave her plumage a lustrous shine. His fingers were strong, but not rough, as he made sure the substances were worked thoroughly into her hair and scalp, and she luxuriated in the sheer joy of the sensation. Once her hair was well-lathered, he repeated the process of pinching her nose closed and lowering her into the tub. She kept her eyes shut and let her mind and body pulse in satisfaction as he rinsed her hair.

If only his hands could be upon me always, every second of the day ...

In comparison, when he cleaned his own body, his movements were rough, abrupt, and perfunctory.

By the time he had finished the water had grown quite cool, and when an involuntary shiver ran up her spine, he noticed and immediately stood. Water dripped off his muscles, her eyes were immediately drawn to his half-erect cock, and he stared down in fondness at her crouching form. "Time to dry you off."

She continued to sit in the tub until he had stepped out of the water, and then she raised her arms so that he could grab her sides, hoist her over the copper rim of the bath, and set her upon the stone floor of the bathing chamber. The surface on which they stood was slick with moisture, but at no point did she fear that he would lose his footing.

He guided her towards a soft, thick bath rug that had been set near a row of cabinets. She stepped onto the fabric and positioned herself with her legs spread apart at a practiced distance and her arms extended straight out to the sides. Her husband retrieved a towel from a nearby rack and dried her off with smooth, gentle strokes. When he was satisfied with his efforts he set the towel aside and picked up a hairbrush. Though he'd used the brush often for purposes other than the obvious, on that night he merely ran it through her hair until her plumage cascaded down her back like a shimmering silver-gold curtain. After he'd finished, he set aside the brush and bound her hair with a single length of ribbon woven of jet-black silk. With a wiggle of his fingers and a final flourish, he fixed the ribbon into place with a wide decorative bow tied at the nape of her neck.

He eyed a stout, thick door at the far end of the bathing chamber. "You have had much to drink ... do you ...?"

She understood what he meant, and in response, she blushed and nodded. He grabbed a towel, dipped it into a bowl of warm water, and guided her to the wooden door. The Nest did not want for locations ideal for privies.

Her husband opened the door, she hastened inside, and he closed it to give her one of the rare moments of privacy she had enjoyed the entire day. She sat back in a half-stoop and positioned herself over the opening that looked down upon the stark, snow-covered cliffs below. She had been dried, but she was also still nude and the evening air was growing cold. The freezing wind wafted upon her nether regions as she squatted, goosebumps rose on her bare skin, and after nature's call had been heeded, she stood and used the small, wet towel she had been given to clean herself. The red stripes across her arse left by the tawse still ached sufficiently that she most definitely was reminded of their presence as she toweled off.

When she'd finished, she discarded the towel in a small linen basket set in the corner and opened the door to find her husband waiting. He'd slid on soft wool trousers but remained bare to the waist, and she found that she desperately wanted to run her hands along the muscles of his sides and reach her fingers down his pants so she could wrap them about his cock.

Later ... hopefully.

"You must be cold, sweetling," he murmured into her ear as he maneuvered her back into the bathing room. As the chill had begun to grow uncomfortable, she nodded in agreement. "Let's get you dressed."

Hanging from a hook set in the wall was a black, short-sleeved, nightgown woven of silk. She held her hands aloft so that he could more easily slide the fabric over her body, and once the silk was draped on her form he smoothed the material along her skin. Her house's lion was embroidered in red thread on the chest of her gown ... the ferocious aspect of her family's sigil juxtaposed with her meek disposition was a regular source of amusement for them both. The garment had been tailored to the usual length of her wardrobe when they were alone in their quarters ... meaning that the hem barely reached past the cheeks of her bottom and her bare, smooth sex would be exposed if she raised her arms any appreciable amount.

Next, he sat her on a well-padded dressing stool set to one side of the room and slid onto her legs thick, warm stockings that covered her from feet to upper thighs ... the stockings reached so high that the hem of her nightgown would brush against them as she walked. She quivered as his hands traced along the skin of her legs, and in response he chuckled and kissed her forehead.

"Soon," he promised her.

For her arms, he fitted her with finely woven wool gloves that stretched from her fingertips almost to her armpits. Suede buckling straps fitted through small loops secured the gloves above her biceps and the stockings at the top of her thighs. Both the legwear and armwear were dyed a deep crimson, and it was not lost on her that her husband had chosen to dress her in the colors of her house.

He most definitely enjoys having a captive princess for a wife.

Smallclothes were not included in her sleepwear, of course, for she was no longer permitted them day or night unless she was in her riding leathers or her moonflow had arrived. Her husband had been delighted to discover that denying her sex the protection of both fabric and hair worked wondrously to distract her from harmful thoughts and ensure that she was kept primed and eager for his attention. So successful were these methods at keeping her wet and wanting that she had resigned herself to a lifetime of her crotch covertly nestling bare and exposed beneath her gowns and dresses.

He opened a small cabinet constructed of glossy, varnished ash mounted on the wall of the bathing chamber and removed two items hanging from the pegs, both of which had been crafted to exacting specifications by a renowned jeweler. The first item was a wide, thick leather collar reinforced with riveted strips of iron along the edges. Lining both the interior and exterior was soft black velvet upon which delicate patterns had been sewn with red thread, and given how the collar fit her neck with exacting tightness, she was grateful that her husband had been thoughtful enough to ensure that it was comfortable to wear for long stretches of time. The second object was a small, ornate lock crafted of steel cunningly wrought in the shape of a lion's head. Two flecks of garnet glittered carnelian red in the eye sockets of the lock, and she often wondered just how much he had paid for such an intricate piece ... to her frequent consternation, her husband nev er spared an expense when she was concerned.

She lifted the ribboned length of her hair and tilted her chin up so that he could wrap the collar around her neck, and the fierce expression of loving, protective possessiveness on his face while he did so nearly brought tears to her eyes. Once the velvet-lined leather encircled her throat, with deft fingers he closed the metal clasp set in the front and then looped the lock through the clasp. The snick of the dangling lock triggered a familiar thrill, and she could not help but reach up with a broad smile and caress the adornment fastened snug around her neck.

Though she normally only wore the collar in their chambers, whenever he dressed her in coats or gowns the fabric of which reached high enough to conceal its presence, she knew that the thick, wide band would be secured around her neck until at least the following morning. Those occasions represented a licentious secret between herself and her husband that always resulted in her being particularly excited for his touch when night came. She preferred to never be without the collar, but her husband feared it would raise too many questions for his wife to be observed wearing jewelry suitable for a pillow slave.

Her husband, seeing her contentment, leaned over to give her a long, energetic kiss, and his tongue brushing against hers while his mouth hungrily pressed upon her own made her extremely desirous of exchanging the bathing room for the bedchamber. She waited with barely contained anticipation on the stool while he finished kissing her, caressed the side of her face, and then swung open the door. He led her into the bedchamber, the air felt cool, crisp, and dry in comparison with the bathing chamber, and a shiver ran up her spine when a draft rustled between her legs.

She'd scarcely had time to gain her bearings before an insistent pat on her rump ... a pat that reminded her that the slashing bruises across her rear remained tender and sensitive ... sent her scurrying back to her corner. Within seconds she stood once again facing the stone with chin held high, legs straight and feet together, and wrists crossed behind her in the small of her back just above the curve of her bottom and just beneath the silver-gold, thick strand of hair her husband had secured in place with a ribbon. The collar was a comforting presence around her neck, the silk of the gown clung to her curves, the fabric of the gloves and stockings warmed her limbs, and she felt clean, well-groomed, and very eager as she settled in to wait.

She hoped he didn't see her smile with amusement when she felt the damp spots left by prior activities seep into her stockings.