Belok's Bride

by Reese Gabriel

  “Writhe for me, Doctor Fisher. Show me with your body what you want.”

  Pride shattered, Merritt arched her back, grinding her hips against those of the woman intent on her deflowering. “Please, Becca, I need it so bad.”

  “Well, well, what have we hear,” called a masculine voice from the doorway.

  Becca froze at once, her face returning to normal. Without waiting to be told she clamored off Merritt’s nude body and put herself face down on the floor.

  “Get up,” said the man to Merritt, drawing his nightstick.

  “The fault is mine,” Merritt offered bravely, covering her body as best she could with the remains of her blouse.

  “Really?” he tapped Becca’s exposed rib with the club. “And what, I wonder will the other slut have to say?”

  Becca knelt on command, hands behind her back, breasts thrust out.

  “Miss Ileana said you were trouble,” the man lifted her chin with the tip of the black rod.

  “You’ve no right to hurt Becca,” blurted Merritt. “She was only following my orders.”

  “Good, now she’ll follow mine. Open,” the guard commanded, inducing Becca to take the nightstick between her lips.

  “This isn’t…humane,” Merritt protested.

  “Suck,” said the guard.

  Becca took the fearsome thing deep in her mouth, caressing it as if it were the man’s phallus.

  “This is what she’s good for,” the guard explained. “This is what you’re all good for.”

  “Do it to me,” Merritt heard herself say. “Spare the girl and abuse me, instead.”

  The man eyed her over the brim of his black-visored cap. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Here, why don’t you hold my stick for me?”

  Merritt shrank back. The man laughed, an easy deep sound, the kind a man makes when he can do what he likes and there aren’t any bosses about.

  “Make it good and wet, slut,” he was saying to Becca, “so it’ll fit in your arse better.”

  “I demand to see Dr. Karisvan,” Merritt said, trying a different approach.

  “The director is unavailable. I’m in charge today.”

  “Ileana, then. Let me speak to Ileana.”

  “Gone,” he grinned. “And all the others, too. Just us peons now. Time for some fun, don’t you think?”

  Becca shuddered visibly.

  “No,” Merritt argued. “It is not time for fun. You will kindly release us at once, or I will have no choice but to contact my embassy.”

  The guard frowned, patting his black leather holster. “Any more out of you, lady, and you’ll be right here next to sweet Rebecca sucking the end of this gun.”

  Merritt retreated behind the table, her bluff having been very firmly called. Desperately, she searched for options. If only she could overpower the man or at least get round him to the exit.

  “All right, bitch, time to switch.”

  Becca took his meaning immediately, placing herself on all fours, her arse pointing in the air. The guard held up the nightstick, shiny with Becca’s spittle. “Should have brought some lubricant,” he mused. “I’d coat it with pussy juice, but she’d enjoy that a little too much.”

  Merritt watched in horror as he put one hand on her arse and positioned the stick with the other. Becca moaned, shifting her hips to accommodate as the guard pushed it forward, relentlessly into her anal opening.

  “You’ll take an extra inch this time,” he informed her, “or it’ll be the cage for you tonight.”

  “Yes, master.”

  So they’d played before. Maybe Becca wasn’t as lonely as she’d let on.

  “Get over here,” the guard snapped at Merritt. “You’re going to take over for me. Keep forcing it in, or I’ll do the same to you and worse.”

  Merritt was numb all over as she took hold of the nightstick handle. How could she do something like this to another human being, a fellow female even if she was begging for it?

  “Both hands,” the guard groused, smacking Merritt’s bare arse. “And put your fucking back into it.”

  Becca shuddered as Merritt leveraged the invading prong deeper. Meanwhile, the guard went round to her front predictably to feed her his stiff cock. Becca opened obediently, taking the length of him in one gulp. She was pierced at both ends now, skewered. The only opening free was her pussy—the one canal she needed filled more than anything.

  The girl slurped and groaned, her slick juices dribbling down her thighs, transmitting her submission, her shameful enjoyment of the debasing, forbidden acts.

  “Mmm,” he crooned, grabbing her ears for handles, “that’s it, baby, suck me, you little slut. Milk it dry.”

  Becca’s mouth and arse bobbed in unison, her lust wanton and unabashed. Merritt continued to move the stick in and out, simulating the motions of a dominant male. Of course she, too, was only a prisoner obeying orders. If she needed proof, there was the sting on her bare arse where the man had disciplined her. Merritt knew it could as easily be her on all fours, taking the dread device deep in her bowels.

  The guard was getting himself ready. Becca would be drinking him down any second now.

  “Don’t stop!” the man snarled at Merritt.

  The second guard came up so quietly, Merritt never heard him till he was right on top of her. The hands clamping her waist were cold, harsh and proprietary. She nearly lost control of the stick as he pushed her forward, the end of it sliding up her sweaty palms. The man wanted to fuck her in her arse, and Merritt was in no position to stop him.

  Thus was she reminded of her new and servile status. The slave doing the fucking was now being fucked herself, and there was no say so—not even a chance to see the face and body of the man taking from her the most intimate pleasures.

  “Let’s come at the same time,” said the newcomer, already settled comfortably in Merritt’s channel. “You ready?”

  “Couldn’t stop it if I wanted,” the one in Becca’s mouth grinned.

  They pumped furiously, matching their rhythms. Both girls were rewarded with a full, rich load, one down the gullet, the other in her entrails.

  “Fuck, yea,” said the first, popping himself from Becca’s eager mouth. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  The second withdrew as well. “That’s enough,” he told Merritt, yanking back her hair until she released the nightstick. “You made the point.”

  The long wooden rod clanked onto the floor. The guards occupied themselves fixing their uniforms while Becca stayed in place, her head down submissively. Merritt was very tempted to join her. Instead she stood, straight as a statue, feeling tense and out of place.

  Should she argue, object, run or fall to her knees begging their mastery? It was the third guard who solved the problem. “Anybody need one of these?” he quipped, waving a pair of the electric shock collars.

  “Give me one.”

  The new man tossed one to the first guard who secured it around Becca’s throat. “So who’s got the controller?”

  “Me,” the second said, snapping one on Merritt’s throat. “But I got dibs on trying it out.”

  He set the pain level to midrange. Becca cringed, the voltage leaping through her limbs. Merritt reached for her throat and felt her legs buckle beneath her.

  “Hands and knees,” the man chided her as she collapsed to her belly.

  Merritt raised herself up in time to hear the new order. They were to crawl to the door and down the corridor. Neither girl needed to be told twice, though the first guard kept them moving, having retrieved the crop Merritt had dropped and using it to prod the naked flanks of the freshly collared girls.

  The floor was rough and cold, stinging Merritt’s sensitive skin. Becca, on the other hand, crawled like a dream, her pretty arse swaying provocatively, her tiny, enslaved body begging to be violated by any man within pheromone range. They were less than ten yards down the hall in fact, when the third guard was overcome with the need to stick his penis inside the girl.


  She was docile as a lamb, allowing the man to mount her, slipping his thick, rock hard dick into her laughably easy hole. Becca was made for sex, made to be used by strong men, this much was obvious. But could the same be said of her?

  She’d fantasized, it was true. As much as she feared sex, feared attachment with any man who could never match up to her father, she still had the needs, the cold sweats in the middle of the night, and the secret ache that yearned to be fulfilled through the harsh command of a male.

  At this point, the second guard, who was already half hard again, pushed himself against Merritt’s face. She opened her jaws and began to lick him back to health. The reward for her diligence was a throbbing member that she must satisfy.

  The mouthful of sperm was her only nutrient for the day. Lifting both girls over their shoulders, they carried them straight to the kennel. Her belly empty and growling, Merritt was made to crawl through the tiny opening into the tunnel behind the obedient Becca. The collars guided them respectively to their correct cages. Merritt to number four and Becca to number three. There was no rhyme or reason to the placement that Merritt could see except that it was arbitrary, the will of the men who controlled their lives at this very moment.

  As the doors slid closed and the light clicked off, Merritt contemplated the darkness along with her uncertain future. Would someone take pity on her and rescue her or must she stand this torture for as long as these men enjoyed playing with her? Part of her admitted to a certain pride that men had found her so attractive and worthy to keep caged up. Contrary to feminist logic, a man would not enslave a woman he did not cherish or find desirable, rather he would set her free, leaving her to fend for herself.

  But to make her a property, this was an act of sheer devotion.

  So far the only man to express such desires to her was a centuries old phantasm, a figment of her imagination, half heard, half concocted in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should have stayed home after all and found a man on campus. Or one of the divorced professors who was always hot on her tail.

  “Your tail, as you so unpoetically put it,” came the voice of Belok, as shocking as it was unexpected, “is in need of a whipping. You will beg for one now, though no one will hear you save your caged sister. In futility you will cry out that you may feel what it is to be abandoned, left in your need.”

  “Whip me!” Merritt shouted, her body pressing the bars of the tiny cage. “I beg to be whipped and taken.”

  “Not taken,” Belok corrected, stilling her tongue. “That is my province…for that you must wait. In the meantime, my little Vistya, I command you to dream.”

  “I am Merritt,” she tried to say, but her voice, so powerful a moment ago was suddenly lost, as lost as she herself now felt.

  “Vistya,” she whispered instead. “I am Vistya.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Merritt awoke on the Road of Tears. Her feet were bare and her wrists were bound in front of her with heavy cord, the end of which was attached to the saddle of the Dark Prince, a man whom she did not know but whom she must wed. Terror and wonder filled her. She was herself and yet she knew the body she now occupied was shared with another, with the Vistya, wrested from her homeland, from her father, the high king of Rulania.

  Once mighty, now humbled before the army of Belok. His black armored soldiers, their swords ever thirsty for blood, their eyes ever bent on mayhem. There was no one to stand against this Scourge from Zuravia, as evidenced clearly by the bodies lining the road. The sharpened stakes rising from the earth like a crop of evil, their razor sharp tips each sated with the skewered body of yet another victim, another fool or madman who’d dared oppose the new order.

  Belok wanted Vistya for his own. This was the cause of the most recent war, the siege upon her father’s castle. The king had not wanted to give her up, but she had pleaded and begged, and eventually it was determined that, to save his people, he must sacrifice his only daughter.

  “Do not despair, father,” she had offered bravely, wiping the tears from his eyes and forging a passable smile. “I shall remain a princess. And, if it is as they say it shall be with this conqueror, one day be an empress.”

  Roulag's lips had trembled, his gray splashed beard hanging wearily on his face. What could it mean to be the wife of one such as Belok? Women to him were only property. Purportedly he had sold his own mother into slavery when she persisted in pestering him as to the running of his kingdom. Even now, he was pulling his new bride-to-be be, bound, stripped of footwear, humbled at the back end at the back end of his horse.

  Flanking them on horses of black were Belok’s special guards, the most fearsome of his fighters. Cold-blooded killers of men and merciless conquerors of women.

  “If the girl be not a virgin,” Belok had said to her father upon her transfer to his custody, “I shall feed your heart to the wolves of the forest.”

  Vistya had nearly fainted on the spot. Her old life was over, her status, the privilege and protection of her station. From now on, how she lived and whether she lived at all was at the behest of a madman. Albeit an eerily handsome one. Indeed, the color of his hair, a fine silver not of age but strength, had surprised her. He was even more fair-haired than herself, a real rarity in this region. So, too, were his cruelly handsome features, the nose, long and noble, the eyes the most amazing shade of blue, almost too beautiful to behold.

  Belok was also well muscled, not overbuilt, but proportioned, his long limbs thickened to perfection. The jaw was firm, the face ovaled, the brow exactly to scale. She could not imagine a prettier man or one more deadly.

  There were, as they approached the environs of his castle, no well wishers, no cheering throngs. The few persons on the road ahead of them scrambled hastily for cover.

  None dared interfere or draw undue attention to themselves. The castle itself bore an aura of foreboding, the very stone possessing an eerie darkness, as though it had been carved from the cold heart of a burnt out volcano. Vistya was overcome at the sight of it, filled with a desire to run, almost overpowering in its intensity. If she had to throw herself to the ground, chew through the ropes and disengage her own arms, than she would, because that seemed preferable to allowing herself to be locked within those silent, life-oppressing walls.

  She could not even imagine a bird landing on those ramparts, or a single butterfly traversing the arc of that fortress. Any living thing would be repulsed, sickened and mortified.

  The entourage stopped at the drawbridge. A single vulture hovered overhead, circled them in the gray sky, sullen and cloudless, as if terrified itself to speak.

  “Harosh,” called the gold armored Belok to one of his lieutenants, a black bearded man with a fearsome curved helmet topped with sharp blades, “you will summon the priest. We shall have the wedding here.”

  The man looked at him questioningly, but sensing the cold resolve, he inclined his head and rode off, hard to the right. The priest, a small balding man was fetched by a troop of soldiers. His cassock hastily donned, he looked anything but thrilled to be in the prince’s presence.

  “This is to be my bride,” he pointed to the tethered prisoner. “You will conduct the service.”

  Beads of sweat formed on the forehead of the man now cowering before his mounted lord. “Sire, certain regularities must be—”

  The drawing of Belok’s sword silenced his objections. “You shall conduct the service or I will fetch another, charging him with the additional task of conducting your funeral.”

  The man’s face whitened. “As you say, sire,” he bowed, bending steeply.

  Vistya was taken to a grassy area overlooking the moat. “What of the wedding gown?” asked Harosh, in whose custody she now was.

  “She shall marry me nude,” the prince dismounted, his booted foot stepping upon the back of a waiting slave.

  The rope was removed and the clothing torn from the young woman’s body, baring her pinkened, splendid flesh. Her nipples were peaked in the cold air, h
er skin flush from her exertions.

  “Down,” Belok snapped his fingers, indicating she was to kneel in the dirt for the ceremony. “Fetch witnesses,” said the prince to others of his retinue. “And also the hostages.”

  “Hostages?” spoke Vistya, these being the first words out of her mouth to her future husband and master.

  Belok cuffed his fiancée to the ground, then commanded her back to her knees. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. “Never question me again,” he said simply.

  “The hostages, lord,” called an officer.

  Vistya nearly died of anguish when she saw the men being led to the ceremony. It was all she could do to keep from crying out, flinging herself at the prince. Well did she know these tethered men, neck-to-neck, hands behind their backs. There was her teacher and mentor, the king’s advisor Gregor, and also the chamberlain and the General of the Army. It was only once she saw her father, last in line, his head hung low in shame that she could restrain herself no longer.

  “Liar!” she screamed at the prince. “Double crossing worm! You promised no harm to my family!”

  Harosh’s metal-gloved hand on her shoulder held her firm. “Shall I kill her, sire?” inquired the man, his dagger at Vistya's throat.

  “The outburst is forgiven,” Belok waved his hand. “She shall have plenty else to be sorry for soon enough.”

  The prince called several men to him, giving his final instructions. The hostages, including the red-eyed, slump shouldered king, were lined up behind the priest, facing the nude girl, and beside her the tall, proud prince in his gleaming, invincible armor, not real gold, which would be soft, but heavy iron, painted and decorated with the fearsome symbols of his realm. The angled black cross, the double headed raven, and the Cup.

  “Get on with it,” said Belok impatiently.

  The priest opened his Bible and grasped it with trembling hands. “Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice cracking.