“You’re barely blushing from my hand, little one,” he said.
She felt his cock driving into her vagina, felt it fill her and split her open deliciously as her clitoris rubbed against the coverlet, yet not enough, not nearly enough. Oh, this was pain and pleasure mingling like smoke. Her hands were opening and closing vainly.
Again and again, he pounded her, lifting her now and holding her thighs in his powerful arms.
She came with loud uncontrollable gasps. His body spanked against her, and the pleasure flooded through her again and again.
This was the most precious of moments—when she thought nothing and saw nothing and likely heard nothing, when she was the pleasure she was feeling, when every sinew of her frame was taut with it, when she knew not where she lay or how long it would last.
Her body was limp, flopping like that of a doll.
At last, it was ebbing, leaving her. She rubbed her breasts against the tapestry, moaning, arching her back.
“Oh, my lord,” she gasped. “My beautiful lord.”
When he came it was with a muffled cry. That was always his way, that low, muffled, gentlemanly cry. The last few spasms of his cock reignited the orgasm. She thought she would cry out.
And then came the awful moment, the moment when the cock was pulled out, when she was emptied, but it was happening, it was over, over so quickly it seemed and so cruelly and she lay there, legs apart, feeling his hands on her hips, waiting, aching, hoping for what he might do or will next. The Queen . . . she could not quite imagine it, as she had only glimpsed the magnificent Beauty once since her arrival, and she had no sense of the woman’s soul.
With a firm grip, he flung her over on her back, pulling her with his right hand to center her apparently on the bed.
She could still feel the carpeted floor with the balls of her feet.
“Wide apart!” he said.
And she struggled to open herself up totally and completely as he commanded, her eyes closed.
“Galen, come here,” he said.
She didn’t dare to look at him, but she knew he was right there, because she could feel his leggings against her own naked legs, and she could feel his fingers now touching her pubis, smoothing the hair.
“Now, I want this trimmed,” he said. “Neatly. Not shaved, you understand. I don’t care for that at all ever. But I want the hair neatly trimmed. And then wash her well inside and out. Oil her. Perfume her. And then bring her back to me to take to the Queen.”
Within minutes, the rough cleansing and grooming were finished.
Galen had been anxious, fearful, and uncommonly clumsy, but she hadn’t cared. Poor Galen. What did it matter to her?
The Queen’s private chambers in the north tower were their destination, Tristan told her as he covered her with a heavy hooded purple cloak.
“Put on slippers. This castle is dusty,” he said to her. And Galen fitted them to her feet.
She hated the touch of any fabric on her, anything that interfered with her pure nakedness, but they were not in Bellavalten now; that she well understood. The passion was building in her again, the telltale damp was returning. And then they hurried along the passage together, and up the stairway, Tristan deeply absorbed in his thoughts.
It was a well-appointed bedchamber, with costly tapestries and an inviting fire on the hearth. A grand bed stood back in the shadows. And in a high-backed well-carved chair by the fire sat the Queen.
There was another figure in the room as they entered, but Blanche could not see who this was.
At once, Tristan removed her cloak and told her to approach the Queen in the customary way.
Blanche quickly obeyed until she found herself kneeling before the Queen’s golden slippers just peeping from beneath the gold embroidered hem of her dark blue gown.
Blanche kissed the soft gilded leather of each slipper appropriately, her heart melting at the smell of the Queen’s exotic perfume. Crushed flowers and spice.
Then came the soft appealing sound of Prince Alexi’s voice, deeper in timbre than Tristan’s, the words running more slowly and evenly, suggesting patience, aloofness.
“. . . simple thing to do what you want with her, if you want to do anything with her, that is.”
“She’s exquisite,” said the Queen. “Like flower petals, this skin. Kneel up, Princess Blanche, and slip your hands to the back of your neck and look at me and then look down.”
A shock passed through Blanche as she obeyed. The Queen’s bright blue eyes were girlish and trusting, and her mouth appeared soft and guileless and naturally pink.
At once Blanche looked down and felt her face burn hot.
So this would be the new sovereign of Bellavalten, this comely and elegant young woman, so fresh, and so appealing and so seemingly without coldness. But faces could be deceiving, Blanche well knew. She’d been spanked hard many a time by the most innocent-looking young pages, cherubs with lilting voices who swung the paddle fiercely and laughed when Blanche moaned.
A deep delicious fear thrilled Blanche. Would this lovely creature punish her? It had been too long since she’d been punished by a woman.
Again her face burned.
“Why are you blushing, child?” asked the Queen.
Blanche felt the Queen’s fingers under her chin. This touch, this gesture, always made Blanche feel doubly exposed and helpless. She knew the tears were springing into her eyes.
“Give me the paddle, Alexi,” said the Queen. “Tristan, you may go or stay as you like. I thank you for this precious toy.”
“The King’s sent for me, Your Majesty,” Tristan said.
And this too thrilled Blanche, but she did not know why. Could she more fully yield to these two, the Queen and dark-eyed Prince Alexi, if her master were gone?
“Well, then you must go, mustn’t you?” said the Queen. “Don’t keep the King waiting.”
Blanche sighed inwardly and secretly when she heard the door of the chamber close.
To her left she could see the leather shoes of Prince Alexi, those soft slippers for house wear, wrinkled and curling at the toes. Dark green leggings and the hem of a long green tunic. She dared not look up for any more details.
With a shock she saw the Queen’s sleeve in front of her and then she felt the Queen’s warm fingers pressed in the tender part of her upper arm.
“You’re softer than the petals of lilies,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “Now stand up, and let me inspect you. Turn your back to me. And I am watching your demeanor. I am watching your smallest gestures.”
Blanche obeyed, not daring to utter a word.
“Ah, yes, you are silent, because I haven’t given you permission to speak,” said the Queen. “Well, you may answer ‘Yes, madam’ or ‘No, madam.’ I like this simple form of address.”
“Yes, madam,” said Blanche. She was on her feet and felt painfully awkward, painfully desperate to please. Her eyes misted. She could see much of the rest of the chamber now, the dark solemn procession of figures in the tapestries, and the sparkling jeweled red coverlet of the elegant bed. Red. Red seemed the dominant color everywhere—in the Turkish carpet on which Blanche stood, and even in the tapestries where the reds rang out from the somber background in which so many muted tones mingled around pale faces with sharp-edged eyes.
“How many years have you been a slave in the kingdom?” asked the Queen behind her.
“Five years, Your Highness,” said Blanche anxiously. It should have been “madam.” Oh, it certainly should have been “madam.” Again the blood rushed to her face.
Prince Alexi had moved around in front of her, and she gazed now at his long tunic and his thick leather belt. Would he spank her soon with that belt? It had a thick silver buckle to it, intricate and beautifully worked.
“Five years,” the Queen repeated. “And tell me whom and how you’ve served.”
Blanche struggled for composure. She was crying. Why did women always bring tears to her eyes? Of course she wept with abandon whenever she wanted, as all slaves were always encouraged to do. But with women it seemed her tears sprang quickly, and a little thrilling sadness gripped her at each syllable that Beauty spoke.
“I was sent to serve for a year, madam,” she said, her back still to the Queen. “I served at the Court for the longest time. I was slave to Princess Lynette.”
“Not the Princess Lynette of my time?” asked the Queen. “Turn around, girl, and face me and keep your eyes modestly lowered as they should be.”
“Yes, madam.” Turning, she found herself staring at the golden slippers, and the perfume rose in her nostrils again, delicious and bitingly sweet. And this queen had indeed been a slave herself long ago, Blanche thought. She had stood for others as I’m standing now.
“Yes, but Princess Lynette ran away, did she not?” asked the Queen. “I heard gossip of it in the village.”
“Yes, madam, or so the old tales say,” said Blanche. She bit her lip, struggling, unable suddenly to remember what she had heard and from whom. Suppose she revealed some gossip about her former and very strict mistress that she was not supposed to say.
But Prince Alexi came to the rescue, whether he knew it or not.
He came to the Queen’s side, and placed his hand on the back of her chair.
“Lynette ran away, yes,” he said, “and she lodged in King Lysius’s kingdom for a long while. You remember, Your Majesty, he would not return escaped slaves, as he was skeptical of the Queen and her enjoyments. But then Princess Lynette returned on her own, confessing she’d only run to be captured, and she was quite bored with life at King Lysius’s Court. She was sentenced to the village then and to the female pony stable and there she served for years. She was sent home a year before I was.”