Princess to Pleasure Slave
Lusty Ghost Edition
by Amanda Clover
@amandasmut
This book and all its contents are copyright 2016 by Amanda Clover. All rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for the use of brief quotations for review purposes.
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.
Prologue
The City State of Isernelli lounged upon the sunny coast of the Borrinean Sea. The cannons of Isernelli yawned from the city’s walls and by their range controlled the beaches and inland roads as far as the eye could see. Throughout the third age Isernelli thrived on fishing and trade with the northernmost cities of Shaddobar. The food was well known throughout the region. A local favorite was the red squid and pickled onion served on grilled bread, sold from hillside restaurant to wharfside peddler’s stand. The wine was good and brought from the western vineyards of Loros. The beer was even better, banned for local sale by puritans in Shaddobar, but sold in export across the Borrinean in the blue-sailed ships of the desert traders.
King Romundo Sansona, a giant of a man, with bright blue eyes and thick, dark hair and beard, enjoyed Shaddobar’s beer to excess. And why not? His beautiful, young wife, Melandra, was on his arm and his young knights surrounded him, cheering his recent victory over the last of the scaleskin tribes. The vile lizards would trouble his country no more and round after round of beer was poured in celebration.
He did not confine his celebration to the sandy yellow confines of his hilltop castle. No, Romundo was a man of the people, a commoner-king much loved by the fishermen of Isernelli. His celebrated in the tavern and his citizens gathered round to cheer along with the knights.
“To King Sansona!” The crowded tavern-goers roared and raised their cups. “To Queen Melandra!”
The king laughed and hugged his wife. He toasted the men who had fallen in battle against the scaleskins and described the greatest heroes among his warriors. Rounds of cheers and more drinks followed.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, my love?” asked the queen, between toasts.
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” said Romundo and he continued on anyway, toasting his men and drinking down more of the ale.
It was no surprise that Romundo had to nearly be carried onto his horse and his wife behind him as the night drew to a close. Some of the knights showed concern, some offered to ride the queen up to the castle or ride ahead and bring a carriage, but the king insisted.
“My wife! My horse!” He swung his hand as if it held his sword. “No King of Isernelli will ride in a carriage like some perfumed merchant of Shaddobar!”
He heeled his white charger into motion and left his chuckling retinue behind in the cobbled lane. Melandra clutched tight, her plump breasts squeezed against his shoulders. She had abstained from drinking, for she knew what her husband did not: she was already pregnant with their first child.
“I will take you home and lay you by the fire.” The king laughed over the clopping of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. He looked back over his shoulder at his wife. “I will do that deed with my tongue and fingers that makes you squeal.”
“Please, Romundo!” she gasped. “Pay attention to the road. It’s—“
The charger whinnied loudly and reared up on its hind legs, spilling the king and queen off their horse and into the narrow lane. Melandra was stunned by the fall, but she would never forget the sound the horse’s hooves made as they descended. It was a crunch like a big bite from an apple only much louder. Almost immediately, a woman began to scream.
“Petsha! Oh, no, my Petsha!”
The agony in the woman’s voice sent a chill up Melandra’s spine. It was a sound of pure, animal pain.
The horse clopped aside and both king and queen finally saw the child with the crushed head lying in the street. The wild-haired woman wore the bright clothes and had the dark-rimmed eyes of a rama woman. The nomadic people were from the mountains of Carpath and not native to Isernelli. Many spoke ill of them as thieves and witches, but the king had always forbidden his city guard from throwing them out of the gates.
Romundo was stunned. He staggered towards the broken boy and knelt as if to scoop him up. The woman pulled her obviously dead child away and into her arms. Melandra gasped as the woman’s white blouse turned scarlet to match her skirt.
“He ran out,” said the king. “I looked away for only a moment. Did he not hear the horse?”
“You!” cried the woman, pointing a long finger at the king. “You drunken fool! I curse! With the blood of rama, I curse! May your first child have ill fortune! May she live a haunted existence!”
The king rose to his feet, ignoring the distraught woman’s words. He took his coin purse from his belt and held it out to her.
“It is all I can offer you. I cannot restore the life of your child.”
She slapped the purse away, scattering the coins and spitting at him as she screamed, “I curse you! I curse you!”
The words continued to echo through the late night street as Queen Melandra ran her hand over the slight bulge of her belly.
The Tale of Princess Felisa Sansona
Once, her father had put her on a boat, hoping to take her across the Straits of Jupin to the trade city of Soricco. It would have been the first time she traveled beyond the countryside surrounding Isernelli. The queen had warned him not to try it, not to tempt fate, but the king had said the short journey would be safe.
The boat began taking on water the moment it cast off from the wharf. It tried to turn around it began to list badly and flood the lower deck. It was only the king’s stamina that kept his daughter from drowning. The ship sank and claimed the lives of more than a dozen sailors. After that, there wasn’t a single captain that would allow the “cursed princess” on his vessel.
As she grew into a beautiful young woman, the suitors had begun to visit the castle where Princess Felisa Sansona spent most of her days. They came to her in the garden, in the parlor, or in the square of the village. They brought gifts for her from faraway lands. They kissed her neck and whispered all the lovely things they would do to her if she agreed to marry them.
Felisa turned them all away, especially those that seemed kindest, because she knew her ill fortune would spread to their kingdom. Whatever fleeting romance she experienced would be tainted with the inevitable doom that followed her every endeavor. She pleaded with her parents to do something, to cure her of the curse, and so her father sought an answer at great expense.
He found it in the Lapontin Mountains several days’ journey to the east. For the first time in her life she was far enough inland that the ocean was no longer in view. The carriage shook from side to side as it climbed higher into the mountains. Rain drummed against the roof and rattled against the windowpanes. The horses whinnied unhappily and the driver cracked his whip to drive them on into the cold downpour.
“I think the storm clouds followed me,” muttered Felisa.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” scolded Vela, her longtime governess.
The dour, middle-aged woman wore her blond hair tucked beneath her bonnet and dressed in the plain, buttoned-up style of an academy instructor or nurse. Felisa thought Vela might have been pretty if some sort of evil bug had not crawled up Vela’s clenched arse and turned the woman into a scowling disciplinarian. But the woman knew of the curse and had kept Felisa safe since she was a child.
Felisa blew a lock of silky black hair from her face.
; “I miss mother and father and Renata and Pearla,” said Felisa. “I do not understand why none of them could come with me.”
“Your sisters are away at their academies. Just as you were at their age. Your mother was called away to your uncle’s funeral in Splendita and your father, well, off on another of his adventures.”
“They don’t want to see me sent away to some awful prison,” murmured Felisa. “Mother has not looked me in the eyes for weeks. ‘Send Felisa and her curse off to the mountains to drown in the rain.’”
“Your father is doing this for you,” said Vela. “You pleaded with him to be cured and they say the witchwoman can unweave any spell, no matter how terrible.”
Vela’s smile was forced and did not hide the governess’s doubts about this trip from Felisa. The young princess saw the sadness in Vela’s eyes and she no longer wanted to talk about it. They rode in silence and Felisa tried to allow the sound of the rain to lull her to sleep.
She was jolted wide awake by a sudden, sideways lurch of the carriage. The vehicle stopped moving and seemed to tilt by the moment towards mountain’s edge. The driver leapt down beside Vela’s window and hurriedly opened the door.
“The wheel has gone over the side!” he shouted against the rain. “You must get out of the carriage! Quickly!”
He practically pulled the two women into the rain, at an angle and out of the carriagand Felisa saw that the heavy rains had eroded the roadway and two wheels were hanging over the side of the mountain. The carriage horses were nearly panicked as they fought against the growing weight that dangled over the edge.
“My bags!” cried the princess.
It was no use. The driver barely got the horses unhitched before the carriage plunged over the edge and broke apart with a distant crack. A colorful flare marked Felisa’s bags rupturing on the rocks and spilling out her fine clothing.
“Should have known better than to drive you.” The carriage driver looked at the princess with accusation in his eyes. “It isn’t much farther up the road. You can walk yourselves.”
He climbed onto the back of one of his horses and led the other three down the mountain behind him. Guilt welled inside the princess, because she knew the man was right. She was glad the rain that wet down her hair and soaked her clothing also hid her tears.
“You are safe,” said Vela, taking the princess’s hand. “That is all that matters. Come. Let us find a fire to warm ourselves.”
It was almost another hour of trudging up the muddy road with their bodies soaked and their breath steaming in the cold. The rusty gates of Poletti Manor yawned open and the cobbled path up to the dark house was similarly ill-kept. A few lights burned behind windows on the ground floor and the smell of chimney smoke hung in the air.
The manor was vast and old and seemed mostly derelict to Felisa. It loomed before them as they approached, its ancient stones beginning to surrender to the elements. Some windows were gone and had been haphazardly boarded over. The huge door was carved with an incongruously light and romantic image of lovers embracing. The painted relief had long ago faded to a single gray shade that more closely matched the current atmosphere.
Vela stopped at the foot of the stairs up to the door.
“I can go no father, my lady,” said the governess. “I will return for you when the time comes.”
“You are leaving me?” cried Felisa.
The door creaked open before Vela could answer. The woman standing in the doorway wore a dress in antique fashion, a shawl about her shoulders like a crone, though the woman appeared no older than Vela. She had indecently large breasts that strained beneath her buttoned bodice. Her wild brown hair was partially braided and otherwise tangled. Her big, green eyes that seemed lively with madness. She wore lace gloves over her dainty hands.
“You are princess?” she asked, her accent eastern and probably of the rama.
“Um, yes, Princess Felisa Sansona.” She curtsied as best she could in her rain-soaked dress.
“I am Cosima Lakonovitch. You are shivering. Come inside, princess. I have fire and soup.”
Cosima put an arm around Felisa’s slender shoulders and guided the young princess into the manor house.
Vela stepped to the edge of the stairs and called out, “Could I trouble you for a rain tarp or a—“
The governess’s words were cut off by the witchwoman slamming the door in her face.
“Come, come,” said Cosima. “The fire is just here. You should take off wet clothes.”
Cosima brought Felisa into the greatroom, with its dark chandelier hanging over the cobwebbed dining tables. The room’s huge hearth spilled out a welcome circle of golden light and a large fire warmed the princess.
The witchwoman brought out a dusty changing screen and unfolded it near the hearth to give Felisa some semblance of privacy as she undressed. Cosima also provided her with a small pile of clothing, which turned out to be panties and a short gown like an older child might wear to bed.
Felisa was slender, though her hips had begun to widen and her breasts were ample, so the dress felt scandalously revealing. Her bosom was almost exposed and with no under-wrap for her breasts her nipples stood out prominently beneath the cheap fabric. The gown did not even reach down to her knees and she shuddered at the feel of the cold air against her bare thigh. She felt naked, but after the bone-chilling journey up the mountain she appreciated the dry clothes and the warmth of the hearth.
“This is much better,” said Cosima, stepping around the screen without asking if Felisa was decent. “You look very beautiful this way.”
“I’m afraid it does not fit very well,” said Felisa. She felt every seam and button strain when she moved. “I think it was meant for a child.”
Cosima handed the princess a watery bowl of leek soup. Felisa sat down on the hearth stone and began to slurp up the soup. It had barely any taste at all, but the warmth was comforting.
“You are not child, I see that now, but daughter of king.” Cosima sat down on the fire-warmed stone beside Felisa and began stroking the princess’s hair. “Very beautiful, with the dark hair and skin like porcelain. You are people of the sea, but not so lucky. Is this true?”
“That’s right,” muttered Felisa around a mouthful of leeks.
“A virgin too,” said Cosima, running a hand down Felisa’s slender back.
“Um, yes.” Felisa looked at the witchwoman. “What does that matter?”
“To lift curse? Nothing. For all other things, yes, is very important. Virgin princess is very good.” The witchwoman’s other hand slid over Felisa’s leg and the princess sucked in a breath as the lace of the woman’s glove tickled her thigh. “Do you feel better, princess? Warmer?”
“Um, yes,” said Felisa, looking at the witchwoman’s inappropriate hand and lowering her bowl.
“I make you warmer, yes?”
The witchwoman’s fingers reached to Felisa’s inner thigh. She pushed up the princess’s childish skirt and Felisa gasped as the woman’s fingertips brushed the taut gusset of the princess’s panties. She stiffened and nearly spilled the remains of her soup into her lap.
“That is… that is not necessary,” gasped the princess.
She instinctively clenched her legs together, trapping the witchwoman’s hand between her slender thighs. Cosima laughed, wiggled her fingers against Felisa’s mound, and pulled her hand away.
“Princess should not be so shy,” said Cosima. “We stay together until curse is gone. We become very close.”
Felisa felt a wave of nausea. It was not that Cosima was disgusting – she was strangely beautiful in her rama witchwoman way – it was that a woman touching a woman in this way was forbidden by the temples. Her father had never been very religious, but her mother had bordered on a fanatic to the sea gods.
At that very moment, a steel cross of Coelanthus, the deep father, hung around Felisa’s neck and against the princess’s breasts beneath the gown. Coelanthus was very clear that a man was for a wom
an and woman for a man and this was how the sea had made the world. The princess recognized the strange sensation she experienced when the witchwoman had tickled her between her legs as an evil urge.
“I am very tired from the road,” said Felisa. “Perhaps I should sleep. Would you show me to my room?”
“Oh, well, princess, yours is not made up yet,” said Cosima. “The linens are damp still from the wash. Better you sleep in my bed. I keep you warm.”
“I think… I do not think this is good.”
“Good? Is very good.”
Cosima’s glittering eyes seemed to entrance Felisa. The rama woman helped the princess to her feet and led her away from the hearth and by candlelight into the darkened corridors of the manor. The storm continued to howl and bang shutters on the windward side of the ancient house.
The witchwoman’s bedroom was obviously that of the master of the house. A fire already crackled in the fireplace beside the huge, four-poster bed carved of ironwood and draped with various scarves. The shutters were nailed down and yet still rattled against the glass with the violent winds. A smell of incense hung in the air and tickled at Felisa’s nostrils.
Cosima spread the candle’s flame to several other candles and a lantern beside the bed, creating a golden light that filled the room. The witchwoman stood between Felisa and the door, effectively trapping the princess in the room.
Cosima unbuttoned her straining bodice as she stepped closer to the princess. She wore no underwrap and her enormous breasts spilled free. They were wide and pale, contrasted by her wine-colored nipples and wide areolas. There were red marks on her fat tits from the inner laces of her bodice. Her mounds drooped some in middle age, though Felisa thought they held some of the pertness of the rama woman’s youth.
Felisa looked away as the witchwoman lewdly hefted and squeezed her enormous breasts. Out of her peripheral vision, the princess saw Cosima lick and suck at her own nipple. Felisa gasped softly at the sight. Cosima laughed at Felisa’s discomfort and began to take off her skirt and petticoat.
Princess to Pleasure Slave 23: Lusty Ghost Edition Page 1
