To Train A Queen

by Commander James Bondage

  Harkness smiled and pushed her breasts together so that he could take both nipples in his mouth at once. He nibbled softly on Princess Christine’s tender nubs, and was rewarded with a sharply indrawn breath and another partially suppressed sigh of pleasure. The muscles of the girl’s flat belly were clenched with her effort to control her runaway body. Her face was no longer an impassive mask; it showed confusion, fear and arousal all mixed together. He wondered how long it would take to bring her to full flower with his hand. Not long at all, he decided.

  His hand slid down the length of her midsection and then between her open legs. Here, there was no doubt about her arousal, and when he had confirmed her virginity, he proceeded to concentrate on increasing her obvious excitement.

  When he flicked her most sensitive bit of flesh with his nail, the Princess’ entire body writhed in uncontrollable excitement. One look at Christine’s face told Harkness that she would detonate with just a few more strokes, even though he had barely begun caressing her.

  “Do you like it, Your Highness?” he asked. “Do you like having my hand in your royal cunny?”

  Christine looked at him, and shook her head wildly, No! No!

  Master Harkness nodded. “That being so, I’ll leave off.” He began to slowly withdraw his hand from her soft chasm.

  “Nnnn! Nnnnn!” Christine mumbled, while she urgently jammed her hips down on the retreating hand.

  Harkness brought his hand back to cup her red-furred mound, with his fingers resting lightly on her. The girl, helpless in the grip of lust, looked down at the hand covering her sex, contorted her hips madly, and tried to find something, anything to rub up against. He moved his hand so that it remained just barely in contact with the Princess, tormenting her with his touch but providing her no relief.

  Christine looked up at Harkness, pleading now with her eyes, making sounds like “Uch eee! Uch eee!”

  “You wish me to touch you, Princess? Is that what you are trying to tell me?” Master Harkness asked.

  Christine’s head drooped on its long neck. She nodded, her head down. “Esss,” she said softly. She lifted her head to look at him again. “Esss!” she repeated, but this time there was no mistaking the urgency of her need.

  “You had only to ask,” he said. He expertly teased and flicked at her, and Princess Christine went wild, twisting, writhing, flailing the air, hissing like a cat, sending long strands of drool flying everywhere. It was quite a spectacular orgasm, as unrestrained as any Master Harkness could recall seeing. The Lady Emily watched in astonishment, faintly envious of friend’s ability to experience such extreme pleasure.

  “Your Highness,” Harkness said, “if I had me a bowl of ale, I’d lift it to you. That there was as fine a show as any you could see at a French joy-house, finer even. You should be proud.”

  Should I be proud? Princess Christine wondered. A stranger fondled me and made me beg for his touch, and when he gave me what I asked, I performed for him like bitch in heat. Of which part of that ought I to be proud?

  “Don’t get too comfortable, Your Highness,” Harkness said, breaking into her thoughts. “My Lord the Count will want a report on how quick you are to peak a second time.” He began to stroke her again, and almost immediately she was heading towards another climax.

  “Nnnnn,” Christine said softly. She shook her head. “Nnnn, leees.”

  Chapter Four

  By the time Count Casimir arrived in the dungeon after dinner, Master Harkness was beginning to get an idea of the unusual sexual capacities of Princess Christine. Although she resisted with all her might, he made her come dramatically four times more in a little over an hour, and had only stopped because he feared she might faint from the excitement.

  He also brought Lady Emily off again. The young Duchess of Fernhill not only did not attempt to resist, but also seemed a little disappointed when he stopped after only one orgasm.

  After he fed the girls their dinners of table scraps, Harkness resumed his experiments. He brought the Princess to the edge of orgasm twice and left her there, to see how she would react (she shrieked and struggled, mumbled incomprehensible pleas, and wept when he did not oblige her). All in all, Princess Christine convinced the executioner that she was the most delicious prize ever to fall into his hands. Count Casimir, he decided, was a lucky man.

  As Master Harkness was well aware, the Count enjoyed certain preliminaries to copulation quite as much as he did the act itself, and he would expect a report on how the Princess and Duchess reacted when chastised. He therefore lowered them to the ground and prepared them for a whipping.

  He set them up side-by-side, facing opposite directions. They were fixed with legs far apart by clipping the metal rings on their ankles to eyelets set in the floor. The cuffs on their wrists remained attached to the chains that ran above their heads over pulleys, and he raised these until their hands were forced above head height. The girls were in severe pain from the terrible pressure on their shoulders. They bent forward at the waist trying to relieve it, while at the same time raising their fine posteriors in a tempting display of flesh. For a final touch, Harkness strapped their elbows together, which not only produced fresh groans and weeping from Lady Emily, but also induced them to thrust their breasts out in a startling display. Princess Christine bravely controlled herself and remained silent, even as silvery tears attesting to her distress ran down to collect on her quivering upper lip, before falling to the ground,.

  He selected a whip with a short handle and three blades of supple leather. This instrument could impart a painful impact, but when properly wielded would leave nothing more than temporary red marks on even the tenderest skin. It could therefore be freely used on any part of their bodies. The Count would not be happy to find these young beauties welted before he had a chance to enjoy them, and Master Harkness’ goal, above any other, was the satisfaction of the client.

  He stood before the blonde Duchess, swishing the whip through the air, and she followed its motions with apprehensive eyes. “I’ll begin with you, My Lady,” he said. “Have you been whipped before?”

  She shook her head desperately, and cried, “Nnnnnahhh! Ooooooohhhh!”

  He nodded. “I thought not.” He brought the whip up over his head, and then swept it down to slice the softness of the prominently displayed mounds of her breasts. The impact made the white globes bounce and drew a shrill scream from her. Left behind on her flesh were three roughly parallel pink bands on both breasts. Emily’s bare feet cut a frantic caper of distress, causing her tits to jiggle delightfully.

  “So you felt that, My Lady?” Harkness asked. “Now try another.” As the helpless Emily watched, the three blades hissed through the air again, scoring three more burning pink lines on her tender mammaries, this time catching them from below to make them fly up for an instant from her heaving chest. After a dozen strokes, her flesh was covered with a pattern of overlapping livid stripes and her breasts were swollen and tender. Harkness tested their sensitivity by lightly pressing one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, which made Emily writhe so violently that she nearly dislocated her shoulder.

  Then he moved behind and methodically began to stripe the lovely bottom cheeks she presented to him, until the young Duchess' formerly white rear hemispheres were hot and red, and bounded crazily from side-to-side, up and down as their owner lost control of her legs. He paused after ten strokes and then examined her carefully between her legs to discover if, and to what extent, she was aroused. He was not surprised to find that she was not at all aroused; this was a typical (although not universal) reaction to a first whipping. That was all right. Given time, she could be made to react as the Count desired. Nearly all women, if they had normal sexual responses, as Lady Emily did, could be trained in this way.

  He finished with a half-dozen strokes of the whip up between her thighs, with the final two strokes landing directly on her sex. Emily jumped straight up in the air, begging for mercy with unintelligible, hysterical cries
.

  As he worked on the blonde Duchess, he was aware of Princess Christine watching her friend’s torment. From her expression, it seemed that the Princess felt every blow to Lady Emily as if it had been dealt to her instead. Harkness was sure that he and Count Casimir would be able to make good use of Christine’s protective instincts for the blonde Duchess.

  Master Harkness rested a hand on Emily’s flaming buttocks “I’ll wager Your Highness has not seen a better thrashed bottom than this,” he said to Christine.

  The beating of the gentle Emily had not intimidated the Princess, even though she knew she would be next to feel the lash. On the contrary, it had angered her and rekindled her courage. She was more determined than ever to somehow rescue herself and her friend from this hell on earth, whatever the cost. The look she gave Harkness promised that she would cheerfully kill him, if given half a chance.

  This was much as he had expected, and indeed hoped. Princess Christine’s spirit was as strong as her body. She would give the Count good sport, he thought.

  He took a rag from his pocket and bound it over her eyes. “Your turn now, Highness,” he said.

  The Princess, now in darkness, waited for the leather straps to punish her flesh. She bit down on the ring that held her aching jaws wide, and resolved not to show any weakness to him. Let the brute beat her with his whip, she thought. She would not dance for his foul pleasure.

  After a few seconds, when nothing happened, she raised her head and turned it to either side, as if trying to see what Harkness was doing. From the sound of his footsteps, she judged that he had gone to another part of the dungeon and was now returning. She heard Emily gasp and try to call out a warning as the sound of his footsteps grew louder.

  “No sense using that little whip on you, Highness,” Harkness’ voice came from behind. “You wouldn’t hardly feel it. I got something else to tickle your royal bottom.”

  Something slammed into Princess Christine’s hindquarters. It was obviously not the whip. The impact sounded like a side of beef being tenderized with a wooden mallet. As for the sensation, the instrument, whatever it was, burned an oblong zone of fire across the middle of her bottom-globes. The pain was so sudden and overwhelming that for a moment every muscle in her body, including her lungs and vocal chords, were paralyzed.

  When the moment passed, however, she did scream, and lustily too. All her resolutions to show no weakness were forgotten. She had never imagined that any sort of spanking or whipping could be so excruciating. She wagged her pained hindquarters violently and hopped from one leg to the other in a mad dance quite as vigorously as Emily had. The throbbing waves of agony continued for a long time, only very slowly becoming bearable.

  “This here is something you won’t be forgetting soon, Highness,” Harkness remarked, as he watched her gyrations. “This paddle was special made by me for certain ladies like Your Highness.”

  The paddle was a eighteen inches long and six inches wide, with an handle of polished oak. It was made from a half-inch thick piece of leather with wooden wedges attached in rows across the front. The weight of the heavy leather drove the wedges into the flesh, producing a broad band of parallel red lines, lines that would become rows of dark bars indicating deep bruises.

  Princess Christine was still gasping for breath, forcing herself to stop screaming, when he struck her again, this time lighting up the backs of her thighs just below her bottom cheeks. If she had imagined that she would be better able to handle the second blow after having got the measure of the first, she instantly discovered she was wrong. The explosion of pain was just as terrible, just as unendurable as before. She shrieked wordlessly, her feet pounding the ground as though she was running in place, aware of nothing but the fire that burned her poor, suffering flesh.

  Harkness found the Princess’ performance entertaining, and he would have liked to continue to ply the heavy paddle on her marvelously springy ass and long legs, but he knew better than to overuse the instrument. He was far from certain the Count would be properly grateful if he presented the girl with her bottom cheeks discolored and swollen. Two such strokes were sufficient. In his considered opinion (and he bowed to no man when it came to such matters), two strokes of his heavy paddle inflicted more pain than a hundred of the light whip. The Princess would remember how it felt, and that was enough, for now.

  He continued with the standard routine, reaching his hand down between Christine’s wriggling ass cheeks to probe her. He was pleasantly surprised at what he found: the girl was aroused again. He did not know whether she had been aroused by the sight of Lady Emily writhing under the lash or by her own paddling, but there was no doubt about her state of excitement. When he pressed and caressed with his fingers, the girl’s hips began to snake madly on his hand. She twisted her head around as well as she could, crying out in protest against this new humiliation.

  “You like it this way too, Highness?” he asked, as she swiveled obscenely around his fingers. “You’re summat new to me, I confess. I never seen a one to match you, not in all my years.”

  Christine said nothing. Her entire being was concentrating on the incredible waves pleasure that flowed up from between her legs. The rest of the world was forgotten; all that existed was the indescribable feeling that pulsed through her body as Harkness fondled her. When she came, it made the orgasms she had experienced earlier seem like pale shadows by comparison. She thought she would die of the ecstasy, that her heart would burst from the raw power of the climax.

  Emily and Master Harkness watched her in awe. Princess Christine’s orgasm was long and all-consuming. By its end, her body was coated in sweat, her legs sagged beneath her and she her chest heaved as she panted for air.

  They heard the sound of a single pair of hands clapping. So entranced were they by Princess Christine’s climax that they had failed to notice the appearance of Count Casimir until this moment.

  “It seems you have unearthed in the Princess qualities that are far from ordinary,” he said. “Pray come sit with me for a little time and share what you have learned, my good Master Harkness.”

  Chapter Five

  “Of course, My Lord Count,” Master Harkness answered. “Sit yourself over at the table, and I’ll fetch a stoup of wine for your ease while I report.”

  “I need not wine, Master Harkness, not when there is far sweeter refreshment awaiting,” he said, making a brusque motion of his hand. He lowered himself onto a stool at a table some distance away. “Tell what you have learned about these noble bitches.”

  Harkness joined him at the table, and began to talk to Casmir earnestly, turning from time to time to point at the girls. They could not make out his words, as his voice was low and he faced away from them, but they did hear the Count exclaim, “Truly?” in evident startlement, and then a little later, “Never before have I doubted your word, Master Harkness, but I must see this with my own eyes before I may credit it.”

  He rose. “But that will come, as all things should, in its proper time. If I keep my lovely young guests waiting any longer, they may think me uncouth.” He strode over to the girls, Harkness at his heels.

  The girls were unshackled from their places and marched across the dungeon to a new location. Here, Princess Christine was placed in a metal frame, which forced her to kneel on the rough stone floor with her arms pulled back behind. Her ankles and knees were attached to rings set in the floor, keeping her thighs spread open in a “v”, and a metal collar at the end of a rod projecting from the frame clamped around her neck, holding her head in place. A wooden arm extended from the frame to press into the small of her back, obliging her once again to arch her back and provide a provocative display of her fine white breasts for her captors’ pleasure.

  Just a few feet away, facing the Princess, Lady Emily was mounted bound in a very different way. Her hands were secured over her head, well apart on a big wooden drum. Harkness then took her feet around behind and over the top of the cylinder, and locked them in place on eit
her side of Emily’s head, bending the Duchess around into a circle. The drum was mounted on an axle and could be rotated to any position desired by use of a handle on one side. There was a foot-deep basin of water at the base of the drum in front.

  “Master Harkness tells me that you each possess a tongue with excellent reach and flexibility,” Count Casimir said. “As I require my bedmates to make extensive use of this organ, I must test you in this skill before deciding which of you is worthy to be the next Queen of Bartavia.”

  He opened the front of his pantaloons, and drew out his manhood. He pulled the handle of the drum until the blonde maiden’s face was positioned an inch away from his organ. “Lady Emily, if you please,” he said. “You may begin with your tongue.”

  Emily rolled her eyes up at the Count’s stern visage, then back at the object that hung before her eyes. She was a virgin, an innocent, who had never engaged in anything more sexually daring than allowing a few boys to kiss her. How could he expect her to perform such a vile deed? “Please, sir, have mercy,” she begged. It came out as, “Eech err ahh errchee.”