Belok's Bride

by Reese Gabriel

  Belok scowled. “You will skip that portion and move to the part about obedience.”

  “C-certainly,” he stammered, “your highness.” The priest swallowed hard. “If you would kindly tell me your bride’s name.”

  Belok put the tip of his sword to the priest’s throat. “She is my property. That’s all you need to know. Refer to her as 'wench' if you like or not at all, just get on with it!”

  Thus did Vistya proclaim in front of witnesses to love, honor and obey her master. Belok, in turn, promised simply to keep her and enjoy her for his pleasure as long as it suited him. The priest nearly fainted and had to be held up when Belok announced afterwards the marriage would be consummated right here and now on the ground under the eyes of heaven.

  “Pay him one hundred ducats,” Belok concluded, remounting his horse. “Send a messenger to tell me when it is over.”

  “But, sire,” the priest could not resist asking. “I do not understand. If you are to consummate, how can you leave?”

  Belok smiled magnanimously. “That is why I am lord, and you are not. You see, my good friend, I am a generous man, the superior of any other ruler in the world. Where other princes selfishly claim first right of intercourse with the brides of their subjects, I, in direct contrast, graciously yield the first fruit of my bride to my inferiors. My new bride, my dear man, will be fucked by my guards. And quite thoroughly,” he added, casting an ominous glance to his stoic soldiers. “If I hear otherwise, then I shall have the lazy parties themselves buggered at length.”

  “Sire,” saluted Harosh on behalf of the company.

  “In the name of all that is holy!” wailed King Roulag.

  “Gag him,” Belok pointed, “and bring him within spitting distance. Under no circumstances allow him to look away or close his eyes. And you,” the prince added, addressing his bride directly. “You will give exquisite pleasure. My men will be satisfied and they will have from you their due. You are to come like a whore for each of them, or I promise you, your first night in my chambers will not be a pleasant one.”

  His final command was to Harosh alone. “Certify her virginity in advance, the priest will witness. If Roulag’s heart is not delivered to me shortly as fodder for the wolves, I will assume she has passed the test.”

  Belok rode off then, a look of serene satisfaction upon his face. He had barely disappeared within the arch of the castle when Harosh, who was to be first, had unbuckled his armor and revealed his fleshy spear.

  “On your back,” he commanded his new princess. “Legs wide apart.”

  The priest was dragged forward, foaming at the mouth. The bearded dark eyed Harosh was surprisingly gentle, kneeling on one leg, inserting a single finger to the correct depth. Vistya, lying in the dirt, remained passive. As terrible as this was, it was nothing compared with what was yet to come.

  “It is true,” confirmed the soldier, reaching the sheer, invisible boundary of her breeching. “The woman has not been had by man. She is virgin. Let it be so recorded. Send the priest home,” said Harosh to two of the men. “He need not witness the rest.”

  The man was weeping as they escorted him back to his horse. Harosh removed his armor.

  “I shall go slow,” he said, pulling his naked sex out from under his breeches, “that you may have time to orgasm.”

  Vistya braced herself as the man lowered his body on top of hers. He stank of sweat, though she knew he was not an unkind fellow. If I must be had, she thought, I am grateful he is first.

  “I seek,” said Vistya, speaking softly so only he would hear, “to please you.”

  The man seemed surprised, but he did not alter his motions. The princess was wet to receive him, the debasement she’d suffered so far seeming somehow to ready her. The truth was, she’d been aroused since Belok had bound her. His insolence, his very blasphemy fascinated her. She feared she may already have fallen in love with the man. What that would mean for her already difficult life, she did not know. To be the man’s prisoner, subject to his physical power, her body mere property was one thing, but if he should take possession of her very heart and soul, there would be no end to his tyranny over her.

  Vistya orgasmed for Harosh, giving herself to him on only his fourth stroke, a deep plunge that buried him to the hilt in her softness. The man followed suit, his sperm spilling into her, overflowing and trickling onto the dirt with her own blood.

  “We go by rank,” said Harosh, indicating who was to take her next. A sinewy, longhaired man with a hooknose and small green eyes was next. He was lean and wiry, his cock long and thin. He never once made eye contact, his gaze penetrating the clumps of dirt above her head. A line of drool ran from his mouth continuously between his intensely clenched teeth.

  The spittle landed upon her breasts, causing Vistya to arch her back. She sizzled with need and she was starting to wish the men would be to her as lovers, taking her nipples in their mouths, opening her further with kisses, taking from her the much deeper things of which she knew herself capable. Would Belok do these things to her? Would he find in her the full measure of her dawning slavery?

  Obediently, bucking her hips like a whore, shamed on the dirt in front of her new husband’s castle and the eyes of her tormented father, the Princess Vistya of Zuravia orgasmed for her second user. Their coming was simultaneous, the man crying out loudly, his head pointed to the gray, somber skies. Vistya was still spasming as he left her.

  She reached up for her third lover, a mustachioed man with a barrel chest who rode her hard, punishing her body, forcing her arse to imprint deeply in the ground. Twice she surrendered before he finally expelled himself, his hands roughly mauling her breasts, leaving deep hand shaped imprints on those tender globes.

  The fourth was a sadist who demanded tears with her submission. As he pummeled her, he kept his hands continually upon her, either pinching her nipples or pulling savagely at her hair. He made her orgasm from the pain, slowing his own thrusts so as to stretch it out all the longer. Neither Harosh nor any of the others said a word against him, though there were vehement protests from her own countrymen.

  Her father had to be revived with a bucket of water as he had fainted from the horror of seeing his daughter suffer.

  “The cunt is frigid,” the man complained, halting himself midstroke. “I’d sooner fuck a tree stump.”

  “I wouldn’t wish such a thing on a tree stump,” quipped one of his fellows.

  The double joke against the man and Vistya both drew a round of deep laughter. The laughter of warriors. Men who killed for a living, and who were compelled to serve a madman.

  “Just be done with it, Jarob,” Harosh told him, indicating his own distaste for their current assignment, “and we will all go home.”

  “Home? I’ll be at the tavern, sporting with wenches. Want to join me, your highness?” Jarob enthused.

  Vistya winced as he kissed her, extending his tongue to lick her face, the sandpaper surface and foul breath adding indignity to her already substantial woes.

  “Others are waiting, Jarob!” shouted another.

  “The little bitch hasn’t orgasmed yet.”

  “Like hell, she hasn’t! The whore’s come three times for you if she has at all.”

  Jarob shook his head. “I need more. Let me beat her arse for inspiration. Someone hand me a whip.”

  Harosh shook his head. “No whipping. The prince will not take kindly to us breaking his new bride’s skin. If you must use something, let it be your sword belt.”

  “Or the flat of my sword itself,” he looked down on the girl, winking.

  Vistya closed her eyes, denying him the victory of seeing her blind terror. Nonetheless she was made to go on all fours, digging her toes and fingers into the dirt so he could lash at her mercilessly with the thick, nasty piece of leather. Vistya’s virgin arse was heated royally, the external temperature of her skin now matching that of her throbbing sex.

  Impatient now and seeing their opportunity, the rest of th
e men went for her two at a time, Jarob filling her cunt while another opted for the soft warm flesh on the inside of her mouth. Vistya had never dreamed of tasting a man’s sex. She had heard it was a thing done to slaves, but never in her wildest dreams had she assumed it could be demanded of a free woman.

  But Vistya was no longer free herself. She belonged to Belok, and if her current plight were any testament, she would live a life as low as that of any slave in Europe. Vistya shuddered as Jarob grabbed her waist, pounding his pelvis against her tender opening. The man at her face was orgasming at the same time. Desperately she swallowed, fearing to lose a single drop.

  Slaves were beaten for such things, she knew. And Belok would demand a full report of her performance. He’d promised her a night of misery if she did not please these men, the ones to whom she had been given.

  “Bah,” snorted Jarob, smacking her arse as he dismounted. “Hardly worth the effort, I say.”

  “That’s because you put her to sleep with your tiny pecker,” said his replacement, taking the vacant spot left between Vistya’s legs. Another was at her lips, and soon she was again in the throes of helpless, inevitable bliss. After that, they placed her on her back again, the ground pressing her punished buttocks.

  Vistya looked up with tortured, passion filled eyes. How many more were yet to come? Would they be enough to slake the fire in her belly? She felt as though she could take on his whole army now. One man at a time, or more than one. Sex was what she craved and pain. Humiliation, abuse and the slash of the whip. Vistya had seen the whipping of slaves even in her own castle. Ever since she was a little girl she’d been fascinated and revolted, unable to turn away from the sight.

  What would it feel like on her skin, hot and dirty, her body bearing the mark of the men even as it beckoned for the next comer?

  “Whip me,” she begged, crying out piteously.

  Within Vistya’s brain, Merritt heard the echo of her own thoughts, her own begging within the cage. Another man fell on the princess, and Merritt felt herself separating out, returning to her own consciousness, her own reality.

  ***

  Ileana was waiting for the girls in the corridor. Merritt was first, her limbs quaking as she crawled out of the kennel. The cellblock outside was an assault on her senses. Already disoriented, she nearly collapsed under the light and heat and sounds. The dream had been as real as anything she’d ever experienced in her life. As real as when she’d been to Belok’s throne to witness the beating of Becca, or the girl who was Becca’s twin.

  Had she been playing the part of Vistya then, too? Belok had not addressed her as such, and yet she had the uncanny feeling the woman’s spirit had been with her all along. Perhaps in some way, they were one and the same. Reincarnations, as Simon had speculated. If that was so then Belok must have been preparing all this time, waiting centuries for her to be born as Merritt Fisher.

  Perhaps he had even cultivated her father’s interests and personality, seeing to it that he would raise a daughter in the right environment, inculcating in her a need to return to his homeland to make herself susceptible and available.

  “Sleep well, my little darlings?” Ileana wore thigh high leather boots, a short leather skirt and a black blouse buttoned to her neck. She was tapping her foot, her arms crossed over the peak of her breasts.

  Becca immediately put her lips to the woman’s foot, showing obeisance. Merritt with her head down opted to wait for the next command. It was not long in coming.

  “Kneel, both of you, wrists crossed in front of you. Prepare to be shackled.”

  Merritt saw the faces of the guards now. There were four of them, the ones from last night and two others. They looked sorely disappointed at Ileana’s return, obviously preferring to have the two female slaves for themselves.

  “Ankles as well,” Ileana instructed as the girls’ limbs were encased in thick iron bands with interlinking metal chains between. “You’re both very privileged. You are to be honored above every woman of your age. Belok has chosen you both, though you, Doctor Fisher, hold the place of highest honor.”

  Merritt’s sex thrummed. She could still feel the men inside her, Belok’s soldiers carrying out his cruel order, raping his own wife on her honeymoon. In the end, though, how could it be considered rape when she had orgasmed each time and when her body had craved all of it from start to finish?

  The guards yanked the females to their feet. Shackled as they were, hand and foot they could barely walk.

  “Carry them,” Ileana decided, not wanting to waste the time for them to shuffle down the corridor.

  “They are filthy,” complained one of the men, the one who’d operated the remote control device.

  “I’ll see to it you get a nice little bonus for Christmas,” Ileana spat sarcastically.

  They hauled the women like sacks of potatoes to the prisoner showers. Back on all fours, the chained girls crawled beneath the nozzles, the water pounding at them from above. It felt like a fresh whipping to Merritt, each drop reverberating waves of heat through her skin. If only she could touch herself and relieve some of the pressure.

  One of the guards with rubber boots and gloves was given the job of scrubbing them clean. The brush was harsh on their tits and cunts but also arousing. Becca and Merritt both orgasmed during their cleaning. As a finishing touch, the guards poked fingers deeply into their rectums and applying some kind of soap that made them sting and spasm.

  Denied towels, they were herded back to the corridor where they crawled the short distance to an emergency exit. A paneled truck was waiting. They were loaded into the rear side by side on their backs.

  A half hour later they arrived at Castle Vistalya.

  The very castle where Merritt had dined with Rochescu. And where she’d been in her vision in the body of Vistya.

  “Now,” announced Ileana, flinging open the van doors, “the real fun begins.”

  No fancy dining today, the girls were taken immediately to the dungeon, to the very place Rochescu had wanted to rape and impregnate her in his aborted plan to seed his own conquest of the world.

  “Put them on the racks,” ordered Ileana, who, unlike the count, was a team player.

  The racks were quite ancient but effective.

  “My job is to prepare you,” she explained, turning the crank to stretch their bound limbs past the point of tolerance.

  The girls were horizontal, side by side, their backs and buttocks pricked by the splinters of the rough, antique wood. Spread-eagled as they were, they were available for any punishment and also for sex. They were dry now, though coated in a fine layer of dust from the van. Both females had erect nipples, and Merritt could smell her own arousal and Becca’s, too, a heady combination when mixed with centuries of decay, mildew and long distilled fear.

  The fact that she wanted to be fucked should have shamed Merritt, but at this point there was hardly any pride worth preserving.

  “You are little cunts,” Ileana told them, swatting the bottoms of their feet with a leather flogger. “You beg to be toyed with. Isn’t that, true?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said both girls.

  “You don’t deserve freedom or rights.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Ileana lifted the flogger above their pussies, teasing them for a moment, before snapping the broad flat end against the raised sex of Becca. “You had a boyfriend, didn’t you? Dimitri, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she offered weakly

  Ileana smacked her cunt harder. “Dimitri told us you were his slave. Were you?”

  “In every important way, I was.”

  “What is an important way? Either you were or you weren’t.”

  “I belonged to him, ma’am.”

  “Did he brand you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Any tattoos?”

  Becca’s eyes began to water. “No, ma’am.”

  She snorted. “And he just dumped you here, didn’t he? Ran away like a coward?”r />
  “I—I don’t know,” she sniffed.

  “Boo hoo,” Ileana thwacked her breasts, reddening the swelling flesh. “You’re a baby, not a slave. You weren’t worth the trouble for Dimitri to train, and you haven’t been for us, either. You know why we kept you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Because Rochescu liked your arse,” she replied, twisting the girl’s nipple savagely. “And now he’s dead. Which leaves you nowhere.”

  Becca’s ribs quaked, echoing with bizarre laughter. She was changed again from the persona of helpless damsel to demonic pain eater. “Whatever you say…ma’am.”

  Thwarted again, Ileana turned to her second victim. “You,” she prodded Merritt’s chin, “you’re thinking something. What? Tell me, or you’ll both be an inch taller by nightfall.”

  Ileana’s hand was on the crank, ready to twist it further.

  “I’m thinking that you’re not telling us the whole truth,” Merritt blurted, too afraid to lie. “You already told us Belok chose us. So we are worth something.”

  Ileana flogged Merritt’s pussy, five times in rapid succession. “What a smart little girl. Now let’s see if you have as many smart answers about your own life. You’re a California girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And your father was a laughingstock. A drunk, a ghost chaser, a pervert.”

  “He—he wasn’t a pervert, ma’am.”

  Ileana tightened the winches, making both girls wince in pain. “But I thought he liked to fuck girls in your backyard, making them wear dog collars and bark for treats? And there was the pony phase, too, wasn’t there? Five-hundred-dollar-an-hour whores greased up and prancing in the ring with saddles on and little tails poking out the ends of their arse holes. Didn’t he get drunk and ride them, in fact? Becca, you should be listening—this is right up your alley.”

  Merritt blinked back the tears. Ileana was so good at hurting her. “My father was a good man, he loved me.”

  Ileana scoffed. “He loved sex, Merritt, that’s all. You know he fucked Tina, don’t you? That little cheerleader girlfriend of yours in college?”