The Captured Princess Ch. 08

"My princess's nipples are lovely by moonlight," he murmured.

"That's supposed to be my eyes. See, this is why women never want to be topless. And don't. Don't use my and princess... not in the same senten- don't. Tir! Stop. I know what you're doing to me. It's a trick. It's like being captured all over again. I know the feeling of chains on my wrists and this is just the same. No, stop moving your fingers like t-that, please stop, we have t-to talk abo- about- this-"

"No more words, my pretty cock-whore." And the words of the makeup slave came back to me, every woman is both princess and whore, and I knew it to be true. I was dressed, I reflected, just that way, one half naked and wanton, and half modestly wrapped in -- no, the analogy failed, the way these thin silk pants outlined my ass I couldn't begin to claim they were modest.

But regardless. Now I needed to be the princess.

"Tir." With a huge effort and both hands I gripped his wrist, and moved his hand away from a part of me that saw no point in stopping for conversation, and bucked to get his hand back. "Listen to me. I'm a Princess. I cannot give myself to you as a slave. If at all it has to be as a princess. You mustn't insist on anyt-"

It was a fine speech until mustn't. That's not a word you can use with any man. You can use cannot, that is a respectable word. But must not appeals to every man's desire to break rules and it comes perilously close to suggesting I want the rules broken. It sounded exactly like I'd giggled and said Oh, bad Tir, you mustn't...

He snarled and spun me and bent me back over the balcony railing. I was in no danger of toppling over the edge, but with his hand on my throat I could not straighten, and my hair moved in the wind, giving me a terrifying sense of my height and vulnerability. The fingers of his other hand ravished my flower, and his mouth closed over a nipple. Before he'd been teasing me towards arousal and it had been like sinking into warm honey. Now he was forcing it, and it was like being dragged down by thick steel chains.

My body loved it.

"Tir! Stop! Tir, I'm scared! Please stop!"

Fear and arousal, merging. My hands found his forearms, felt the thick cords in them, and I'd meant to try to pull them away, but I found myself stroking them. Placate the angry man, my mind whimpered.

"My slave gives too many speeches," he said, and this time the word slave was used exactly the way angry owners have always used it to their property. I should have been furious; instead my body betrayed me further. My legs parted and I pressed one against his, sliding against him, petting him. His displeasure was the worst thing in the world; I had to placate him. The arch of my foot trailed along the back of his calf, slowly. In response he bit down, and I moaned sluttily. Pain and fear and desire. I wanted more.

He pulled me forward and put me on my hands and knees, and snarled as his hand slapped my ass. We were visible to half the city, and I knew that after a few slaps I'd be unable to speak at all.

"Lord Tir," I sobbed, softly. "Not this. Please. I may no longer be a Princess but don't reduce me to this. I need some trace of respect in my life."

"She does, you know," whispered Enjine's voice, out of the darkness of the apartment. Her voice was breathy and I knew she'd been masturbating to my plight.

Tir's hand traced my ass, and shaking, I pressed back against it. He'd won. I had to please him now. It had gone from a pleasant possibility to a necessity, an irresistible craving. He knew it and all I had left was the shred of pride that begged to be taken in a bedroom, not on a balcony. His finger slipped in and I sobbed in animal need. He knew. He knew my begging pride was powerless and he could do what he liked.

My head lowered. He'd take me here and I'd be shattered, finally broken, and that would be the end of my stubborn attempt to avoid slavehood.

"Up," he said, and walked into the apartment. "Follow."

I did, shaking. He walked past a wide-eyed, panting, naked Enjine curled suggestively on the couch, and into the bedroom. I followed.

"Hands on the bed, feet together on the floor."

I couldn't think. I couldn't stop feeling emotions I didn't understand. Not quite fear. Something like... awe and shyness and confusion and inevitability and longing. But mostly I felt it wasn't fair. He'd manipulated me and taken me and schemed for me and rescued me and kidnapped me and now his hard cock wanted me; and something, something deep in me that I didn't begin to understand, demanded that now I was his. I should have had some sort of choice but somehow he'd taken that away. Or I'd given it away? Shaking, my hands touched the bed, and then clung to the sheets.

The women of my land had a saying: what is the difference between a woman in love and the lowest of sex slaves? The slave gets a nice collar.

The door closed behind us, and faintly I heard Enjine's frustrated "No!" And then Tir's hands jerked down my pants, leaving them to tangle around my ankles; and he placed his hands on my hips, tilting them suggestively, and I was on tiptoe...

..and then the fear died and the awe grew, and I felt the head of him, massive and shameless, press against my slickness... for the first time I gave myself to a man without reservation.

I came helplessly, over and over until he released in me; then he let me sag to the bed and shiver, and I nuzzled against his thigh.

Such peace...

++

I don't know what happens next.

To be honest I'm having the time of my no-longer-virginal life. Tir is a sexual machine and it takes both Enjine and I to keep him calm. It is so very tempting to just stay here, enjoying the comforts of his body (and with a deep blush, I will admit that I have learned to enjoy Enjine's body too; for a sweetly submissive slave she can be very persuasive.)

But there is a little voice in my head that reminds me that I am a Princess, and of a fallen country. I am the last survivor of my house, and I am no longer a child. I know I can't return and lead a glorious revolution against our conquerors; the time is not right and perhaps won't ever be in my lifetime.

But Enjine showed me some of the prophecies of the clerics of Narsana. They make interesting reading, and they talk about a schism in a mighty house, and a child born of the last two warring nations that strikes a hammer blow, and shatters the divided house of the conquerors...

In three months my infertility injection wears off. Of course I'd get it renewed. All daughters of nobility do; otherwise unscrupulous men would get us pregnant and attempt to gain the family fortunes that way. Or in my case, I'd do it to continue to safely enjoy the pleasures of Tir's ruthless cock.

But what if ... I didn't?