Possessing Allura

by Reese Gabriel

  Title Page

  POSSESSING ALLURA

  by

  Reese Gabriel

  Publisher Information

  Possessing Allura first published in 2005 by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2011 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Reese Gabriel

  The right of Reese Gabriel to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Introduction

  ‘A whip like this doesn’t just punish a female,’ he went on, Allura barely hearing his goading ramblings, ‘it fucks her.’

  Allura accepted the handle pressed to her lips, and without being told she parted them and he pushed it deep, her jaw aching as her mouth filled with pungent leather. Frightening herself with her obedience she sucked, wanting the feel of it all the way to the back of her throat, the smell and taste of leather filling her nostrils and her mouth, mingling sickeningly with the dungeon keeper’s odor and the stench of the foreboding dungeon, and the constant pull of the cuffs on her wrists, pulling her body so vulnerably taut as she hung there.

  ‘How about it?’ He removed the saliva coated handle from between her lips. ‘Ready to be whipped?’

  Chapter One

  The slave girl gasped in horror as the hairbrush slipped from her fingers to the floor at her mistress’ feet. The count stood at nine hundred and ninety-one strokes to the princess’ golden locks – so close to her quota of a thousand, and yet so far.

  ‘Forgive your slave, mistress.’ She fell to her knees, putting her forehead to the marble floor. ‘Veeta begs to be allowed to begin again.’

  The Princess Allura shook out her long sandy tresses and smiled, cat-like. ‘Too late, my inattentive little slut.’

  ‘Mercy,’ pleaded the barefoot girl as she lowered herself to her belly in the pitifully short rag of a covering, more a provocation to indulge than an actual garment.

  Allura beheld the girl’s trembling, prostrate form through cold eyes, feeling as always the special thrill that came with having total control over a fellow female. ‘I grow weary of your sloppiness, Veeta, and your disobedience. Have you any reason to offer why I should not have you put to death this time?’

  ‘No, mistress, I have none,’ she replied piteously.

  The fact that the slave had been denied sleep twenty-four hours straight doing the princess’ bidding was no excuse for her clumsiness. Nor was the fact that she had received in all that time only a few bites of food, table scraps, which she’d taken like a bitch off the floor, cringing on all fours at the dainty feet of her owner.

  ‘Nor can I,’ the princess declared. ‘You may kiss my royal slipper while I consider the matter.’

  Veeta’s lips pressed softly against the woven lavender fibers of the princess’ shoe, the same color as her hand-woven dress. Allura could not remember a time when she did not enjoy such scenes; watching slaves and servants alike being humiliated and broken for the enjoyment of one and all.

  As the only child of the king, Allura grew up a monstrously spoiled creature, not to mention a pure sadist at heart. She loved nothing more than to see her victims sweat and crawl and beg. As young as five she learned to manipulate events so as to cause these poor unfortunates to be put under torture. It didn’t take much to achieve her dark ends. A teacup surreptitiously pushed over the edge of the table, a tiny stone thrown to the ground to be caught up in the shoe of one of the carriage horses, even a bit of mud streaked across her own face or over the lacy hem of one of her dresses were all excellent causes for a beating to be administered to one or more of her attendants.

  And if the servants had no chance around her, the slaves had still less. One wrong word from their mistress and they could be sent to the dungeon, sold or even killed outright. If they knew what was good for them they would put much energy into kissing the girl’s feet and licking clean her shoes.

  For her eighth birthday her father gave her her very own riding crop, a device she used to great relish. It was said that the occasion of that gift marked a day of mourning on the part of the household staff, though Allura herself saw it as the beginning of her true lordship.

  The princess also enjoyed torturing the boys her own age, the sons of the nobility. While Allura could not enjoy the thrill of punishing them, she could still make their lives miserable; for defeating her, either in games of skill or chance, was forbidden, as was opposing her physical tyranny. It was quite a comical sight to see the smaller female pushing round the larger males, making them wear girls’ clothes and play whatever games she desired.

  Had her father seen firsthand the true depths of Allura’s cruelties he might well have checked it at a younger age. As it was he was frequently away at war, leaving her care to a great uncle, the Grand Duke Fortragian. The duke took little care in her upbringing, concerning himself with more pressing matters, such as the scourging of lovely peasant women with various rods and canes.

  This, too, did not escape the notice of the young princess, who took every opportunity to watch them being brought in late at night. She never saw more than the looks on their faces, their nervous whimpers behind their gags as the soldiers conveyed them on pretty bare feet over the castle floor, but it was enough to make the girl’s heart race. Whatever happened behind the closed doors of her uncle’s bedchambers, it was serious, important, and above all nasty. Something different from the mere disciplinary beatings imposed on the cringing backs and crimsoned buttocks of the household staff, she was sure of it – but what?

  Many years would she have to wait to learn more, and many events would she have to live out. Not the least of which was the sudden and untimely death of her father in a cavalry battle near the southern frontier.

  Allura was eighteen when they brought her the fateful news. Her expression betrayed nothing, nor did her mannerisms. They would see no signs of weakness in her, of that she was determined. They would only know a crueler Allura, one more recklessly determined than ever to impose her will upon the world. It had been thirteen months since that dark day and she had yet to break her vow to herself.

  ‘Kneel up slave girl, it is time for us to decide your punishment.’

  Veeta obeyed, assuming the required position, back on her heels, her knees wide apart. The slave had no undergarments beneath her short dress, a predicament that left her nether region exposed. She was kept hairless below, another condition of her subjugation. Allura liked that the girl could not conceal her privates. As an owned girl it was right and fitting that she should be on display to one and all. To the men, in particular.

  ‘Hands behind your back,’ said Allura, making Veeta cross her wrists as if they were bound. A long time ago, when she and Veeta were little girls, they had been friends. She had been Saraveeta then, daughter of one of her father’s nobles. They’d been thick as thieves growing u
p, till one day Saraveeta took a fancy to a boy Allura liked too. Allura told her father she’d seen Saraveeta kissing the young man, which was a lie, but a very important lie because by the laws of her people a woman could only kiss the one male who was to be her husband.

  The young man had refused the union, which left Saraveeta in the unenviable position of being branded a harlot. The only two possible sentences were death or imbondment, but at Allura’s entreaty the girl’s life was spared, and now Saraveeta was her old friend’s slave.

  ‘What do you think should be done with you, slave girl?’ Allura asked, having fetched the sleek black crop of the type used by the jockeys in the royal races.

  ‘Whatever mistress desires.’ Veeta’s eyes were moist. Her suffering, as always, was great. Hungry and tired and afraid, she must now take responsibility for her own unjust sentencing, punishment for a crime she could not have avoided.

  ‘How cooperative you are all of a sudden,’ Allura scathed. ‘Now that I am holding the whip.’

  Veeta did not flinch, even as Allura flicked the tip of it over her thinly covered nipples. ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Allura struck her bare arm, leaving a welt. ‘Remove your garment.’

  Veeta pulled the rag over her head without hesitation. She was a disciplined girl now – an obedient girl.

  ‘What are you, Veeta?’

  ‘A slave animal, mistress.’

  ‘Hands behind your back, slave animal, where they belong.’

  Veeta snapped them back into place.

  Allura regarded her, making her feel like the subhuman creature she was. ‘You are dirty, Veeta. Your hair needs washing. One can scarcely tell where the dirt leaves off and where you begin.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ said the once proud, raven-haired girl.

  ‘Do you think you are attractive to males, Veeta?’

  ‘I do not know, mistress.’

  It was an honest answer, but Allura struck her savagely across her breasts anyway. ‘You are suitable only for sex, Veeta. For rutting like a pig. Like a little bitch whore. Do you think that makes you attractive?’

  ‘No, mistress,’ she whimpered from the pain.

  ‘Would Porfino want you now?’ She named the boy they’d once fought over. ‘Except as a convenient cunt?’

  ‘No, mistress.’

  ‘That’s what you are, Veeta. A cunt. Say it.’

  ‘I am a cunt, mistress.’

  ‘Very well, let us settle on your punishment. Which do you think is better suited to a lazy slave cunt who can’t even count to ten thousand – a sound beating or a good old-fashioned mass fuck?’

  Veeta’s face grew pale. ‘I… I do not know, mistress.’

  Allura laughed with cold disdain. ‘Of course you know, slave bitch. You’re just afraid to say it. You try to fool me into thinking both possibilities disgust you, when in fact you want it all – an ass-whipping and a mass fuck. Go on. Admit it. In fact, I could have you shipped to the frontier and given to the barbarians and even that would arouse you. I hear they know how to treat a woman – an enemy woman.’

  The girl shook her head. Allura’s threat was a new one, saved for a special occasion. Veeta seemed like she might break down, something that hadn’t happened in some time now. ‘P-please,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘don’t do this… if our friendship means anything to you, Allura.’

  Allura’s features darkened. The little slut had pushed it too far this time. ‘On your back. Fingers in your cunt.’

  The girl gave a little moan but moved to obey, spreading her legs wide so as to allow herself maximum access. Nothing made Veeta more vulnerable, and therefore more enslaved, than forced self-pleasuring.

  ‘Pinch your nipple, touch your clit.’

  Veeta writhed at her own touch. How disgusting, and yet how totally provocative. In a way Allura envied her the freedom she had, to be naked like that, with no responsibility, no accountability and no reason to hold back.

  ‘Now tell me, Veeta, how does it feel when you’re being beaten?’

  ‘I get all hot and wet, mistress. Even when it hurts very much… especially then.’

  ‘You like the whip on your skin, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, mistress,’ she sighed. ‘It burns me and brands me, it makes me feel… like a woman.’

  ‘And the cane?’

  Her eyes glazed over. ‘The cane is so hard and brutal, mistress. There is nowhere to hide when it comes smacking down on my behind. I have to take it. I have to absorb the blows, and afterward, the marks. I run my hands over them sometimes when no one’s looking.’

  ‘But you like getting fucked, too, don’t you?’

  Veeta arched her back, pressing her pelvic bone tight to her fingers. ‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Allura demanded, seeking enlightenment for her virgin ears. ‘What is it like to be with a man?’

  ‘Men are strong, mistress, they take what they want.’

  ‘And you must give it, for you are a slave.’

  ‘Yes,’ she tremored, on the brink of orgasm.

  ‘You may not come,’ said Allura cruelly, ‘or I shall have you sent to the barbarians, to be their sex toy. On the other hand, if you stop touching yourself I will have you impaled.’

  Veeta whimpered, knowing the impossibility of her predicament. ‘Mercy, mistress, please.’

  ‘No,’ said the petulant princess. ‘Not till we’ve finished our discussion. Do you like being a slave girl?’

  ‘I have no choice, mistress.’

  Allura bent down, whip in hand to lash at the girl’s thigh. ‘That is no answer.’

  ‘S-sometimes,’ she tried again. ‘I like to be a slave sometimes.’

  ‘Legs wider apart, bitch, and pinch those nipples.’

  Veeta struggled to perform as ordered. The conversation, the game, was hardly new. They enacted it often, for Allura’s enjoyment.

  ‘We were rivals once. You liked to tease the boys with your body.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘You teased Porfino, for example.’

  ‘I did, mistress.’

  ‘You are no longer a tease, are you, Veeta?’

  ‘No, mistress.’

  ‘At the snap of my fingers you would crawl to any man’s belly and beg him to use you.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Allura chortled with satisfaction. ‘Tonight I shall have you fucked by the guards again. You may thank me in advance.’

  ‘I-I thank you,’ she shuddered. ‘For having me fucked, mistress.’

  ‘You will enjoy it.’

  ‘Yes… my mistress.’ Veeta gasped. The convulsions were upon her. She would not be able to hold out much longer. ‘Please, mistress, I beg to be allowed to come.’

  ‘You will have plenty of chances to do that with the guards, won’t you, you lazy bitch?’

  Veeta’s whimpers grew piteous. She shivered, writhing uncontrollably, her own fingers like fearsome invaders to her sex and breasts.

  ‘You are making a mess on my floor.’ Allura noted the glistening juices leaking from the girl’s crotch onto the marble. ‘When we are done you will lick it clean with your tongue.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Allura felt the heat between her own thighs. There was a fevered light in the slave’s eyes. Something wicked she’d seen many times before. It occurred in her suffering, in her sexual distress. How could this be possible, that the two, pleasure and pain, could be linked?

  ‘Get up,’ the princess commanded, lashing the girl furiously. ‘To the columns with you. Show me what a little whore you are.’

  Veeta did not need to have the order spelled out. She knew well what it meant to be ordered to the row of fluted marble columns ringing the princess’ sunken bathtub. She pressed her body against the fi
rst one, grinding as though it was a man. Few punishments were more humiliating to Veeta, or more pleasurable to Allura than this one.

  If denying the slave orgasms was one form of torture, so was compelling them. And yet the desperate girl was more than willing to trade her pride for a chance to rub her breasts, belly and cunt against the cool, rounded surface. The first climax was upon her almost as soon as she clutched the column between her thighs. Wrapping her arms tight, she pushed her nipples savagely against it, allowing maximum friction.

  In the beginning Veeta had cried and begged not to be forced to do this, especially when ordered to do so in full view of members of the household staff or guests. The whip, however, proved a very persuasive teacher, as did hunger and other tortures, too many to mention. But being a smart girl Veeta learned quickly that humping a column like a dog was by no means the worst thing that could be done to her enslaved flesh.

  Sometimes Allura liked to make her hug the column while being whipped. This way Veeta would experience sweet stimulation and agonizing pain. Perhaps now would be such a time. She need only decide on the correct instrument of punishment – one of the snaking whips, perhaps, or the dreaded cane…

  The princess’ reverie was interrupted by a knock upon the doors of her outer chambers. ‘Who is it?’ she raged, determined that someone should pay for this interruption. ‘Who dares disturb me?’

  ‘Forgive me, princess,’ came a voice she knew at once to be that of Meksior, the spineless vizier to her Uncle Fortragian. ‘I have come to inform you that your visitor has arrived.’

  ‘Visitor? What are you talking about? I am expecting no visitors.’

  Veeta continued her heavy breathing as she pushed herself to another humiliating orgasm.

  ‘Count Raysar, princess. The latest suitor. You recall his appointment?’

  The suitor. Yes. One of her uncle’s ideas. The grand duke, now regent of the realm, intended to marry Allura off so as to free himself of the problem of royal succession. By law she could not assume the crown herself unless married. It was a ridiculous practice and she intended to alter it at the next convocation of nobles. The princess would marry no one. She would be queen alone. In the mean time, she was humoring the grand duke, interviewing various prospective husbands, each of whom she promptly ran off, tail between his legs.