To Train A Queen is erotica in an historical setting, and although I have published
several novels in this genre, my Faithful Readers may not be as familiar with
them than they are with the alternate world science fiction stories of the By
Judicial Decree and the Cadet series. Dear Faithful Readers, do not shy away
from this or my other historical novels out of fear that they will lack the
erotic content of my other books. I have it on good authority that the
unfortunate girls in this book, Trapped
Princess (Part 1 and Part 2), Slaves
of the Assyrian Empire and the other historical novels, are as alluring,
their torments as painful, and their surrenders to their cruel masters are as
satisfying as those found in any of my stories.
I think your hearts will go out to poor,
unfortunate Princess Christine and her dear friend, Emily while they languish
in the dungeons beneath the palace of the former’s father. It is perhaps
possible that some of you will also secretly envy the usurper Casimir for his
ownership of these two delicious noble maidens, particularly after he has
trained them for his pleasure and bent them to his will.
Please let me know what you think of this
book, or anything of mine you have read by e-mailing me at:
commanderjamesbondage@yahoo.com
I look forward to hearing from you
soon.
Regards,
Commander James Bondage
The sounds of fighting from the courtyard died away as the last of the
loyal guards were overwhelmed and cut down one-by-one by the Count’s men, to
lie bleeding their lives out on the gray flagstones. Up in the throne room, all
that now could be heard of the combat was a few faint clinks as steel sword met steel shield, and an occasional faint cry
of agony as a soldier received his deathblow. The big man with the black beard
and mustache dressed in half-armor and a bloodstained white wool cloak, sitting
with his body slumped uncomfortably across the elaborately carved throne, was
too preoccupied to pay the sounds any heed; indeed, it was doubtful if he even
heard them.
It was clear that the man, Count Casimir LeBonne by name, was waiting
for something or someone. The Count was making no effort to conceal his
impatience; the steel tips of his gauntlets rapped out a steady, nervous rhythm
on the arm of the throne while he stared at the open archway that was the
entrance to the room, glowering menacingly at anyone who moved into his line of
sight.
After what seemed to Casimir’s underlings to be approximately forever,
there came the sound of voices in the corridor indicating that someone, or
several someones, were approaching. Casimir sat up straight, and the scowl fled
from his face to be replaced by a broad grin as the voices became louder and
more recognizable.
Through the pointed archway and into the high-ceilinged chamber came a
squad of Casimir’s men, accoutered much like their commander in white cloaks
over steel plate armor. With these men were two girls, whose hands were tied
behind their backs and had soldiers firmly gripping their upper arms, one on
each side. The girls were in dressed in brightly colored kirtles that looked
somewhat worse for wear, and from their glassy-eyed expressions, appeared to be
rather the worse for wear themselves.
The captain of the squad, an English mercenary named Boynce, shouted,
“Attention!” His men snapped into position, stiffening as if ramrods had been
suddenly thrust up their fundaments, as did Boynce himself.
“My Lord,” the captain said, thrusting out his chest and bellowing as
though he wanted to be certain that no person on the castle grounds could not
hear him, “I wish to report the capture of the Princess Christine and her
companion, Lady Emily of Fernhill!”
Casimir, who was accustomed to his man’s volume, did not turn a hair. He
nodded his head, and said, “So I see. Excellent work, Captain Boynce. I shall
not forget you when the spoils are distributed.”
He crooked a finger at the four men holding the girls. “Bring them up to
the foot of the throne, if you please, gentleman. I should like to converse
with the Princess and her noble friend, and one can hardly have intercourse
with them when they are so far away.”
The four soldiers advanced, carrying the two girls as effortlessly as if
they were straw- stuffed effigies, until the hems of their skirts were brushing
the toes of Casimir’s cavalry boots. Although they were not related, they were
often taken for sisters by strangers, so similar were their appearances. Both
girls were 18 years old, had delicate, straight noses, high cheeks, eyes that
were almost shockingly blue, long, fine hair and attractive, curving forms
beneath their dresses.
Emily was the daughter and heir of the Duke of Fernhill, the wealthiest,
most powerful noble in Bartavia, and the King’s right hand and closest friend. His
wife had died when Emily was only five years old, and she thereafter spent most
of her childhood in the household of the royal family with Princess Christine,
being raised almost as though she was in truth a second daughter to the King
and Queen. The two girls became fast friends from the moment they first met,
and now were inseparable.
Emily was taller, had hair of spun gold, and a shape that was more
frankly womanly, while the shorter Christine had tresses the color of molten
copper, and a more slender form, but one that was in no way less attractive.
“I trust you are in good health, Your Highness, My Lady,” Casimir said,
bobbing his head amiably.
His words seemed to bring the dazed Princess Christine to life. “How
dare these men lay their hands on the daughters of the King and Duke Fernhill,
Casimir? Order them to release me at once… both of us!” she shouted. Without
waiting to see if he would obey this royal command, she continued, “Do not
concern yourself with the state of our
health, villain. You would do better to consider your own. Have you despaired
of life that you would presume to place your low-born posterior on the Lion
Throne of Bartavia? You may count yourself fortunate if you are merely beheaded
instead of being drawn and quartered as you deserve, after the King hears of
it!”
The soldiers exchanged sidelong glances. Count Casimir normally did not
tolerate being harangued by anyone, especially a mere slip of girl half his
age. He had a short temper, a violent disposition, and he was no respecter of
rank, age or sex when he believed there was an insult to be repaid.
But rather than striking the Princess dead with his mace, Count Casimir
smiled. That is, the corners of his mouth turned upwards to display the tips of
his teeth, which technically constituted a smile, although it far more
resembled the expression on the snout of a shark the instant before it rips a
mouthful of flesh from its prey, than it did any normal human expression.
“Well, perhaps he will not hear of it,” he said easily. “In sooth, I
should be astonished if he did.” He bent to reach over an arm of the throne,
and plucked a stained burlap sack from the floor. “It is said that dead men
tell no tales, so by analogy, I must conclude that they cannot hear them,
either.”
With this, he gripped the bottom of the bag and emptied its contents on
the floor at the feet of the two girls. They both screamed hysterically and
frantically threw themselves backwards, away from the two gruesome objects now
laid on the flagstone before them: the severed heads of the Prime Minister of
Bartavia, Duke Robert of Fernhill, and his sovereign King Charles Gustav II of
Harenburg.
The girls continued to scream until their spittle was pink and Casimir
was developing the beginnings of a headache from the ear-piercing sound. Finally,
he seized the two heads by their hair and returned them to the sack, which he
tossed aside. Then he gestured to Captain Boynce, who nodded and crammed
handkerchiefs into the girls’ mouths, securing them in place with lengths of
twine, which he tied behind their heads. This served to muffle, if not totally
silence the screams.
The Count began to speak again. “Now, as it happens, I…” He stopped when
he realized that he did not have the full attention of either the Princess or
the Duchess (with the death of her father, Emily had inherited Duke Robert’s
title and properties), if the way their eyes were rolling wildly around in
their sockets and the stifled sounds of panic and grief they both made was
anything to go by. He leaned forward to slap Emily lightly on the cheek, and
then did the same to Christine. As he was still wearing his metal gloves, even
these comparatively light chastisements were sufficient to snap the heads of
the recipients violently sideways and raise colored lumps on their cheeks,
which almost immediately began to darken into bruises.
“I must ask you to pay close heed to my words, My Lady and Your Highness,
for this is a matter of importance,” Casimir said. “Have I now your full
attention?” He raised his gauntleted hand again.
Emily cringed fearfully, her eyes on the gauntlet as she nodded her head
in answer. Christine nodded her head as well, but her eyes were locked on the
Count’s in a glare of unalloyed hatred. He returned the glare with a smile and
a wink before continuing.
“Good. I mislike repeating myself,” Casmir said. “Now, as it happens, I
should like to make the transition from the old dynasty to the new as
uncomplicated as possible for my new subjects, and for that I must needs have a
member of the old royal family for my Queen. That way…” He trailed off again,
as the two girls burst into muted, incomprehensible, but obviously heartfelt
protests.
Rather than battering them into silence again, Casimir nodded, and said,
“Ah, of course, you were not privy to the news, and so knew not that the reign
of the Harenburg family is at an end, or that I shall become the new King.”
Emily reacted by screwing her face up and bursting into tears. Christine,
on the other hand, shook her head and made a noise like “Nnnnn!”
The Count nodded his head. “Oh yes, it’s quite true. Shaking your head
will change nothing, my dear,” he said. He raised his mailed hand again. “Now,
do you need a fresh reminder, or will you still your clamor, YoHighness, that I
might be permitted to finish?”
The threat was sufficient to make the two girls fall silent again. “As I
was saying, the uncertainties that might result from the change will, I judge,
be greatly lessened if I take a Harenburg to wife. My first preference would
have been your mother, Queen Charlotte, who became eligible after the
unfortunate demise of Charles. But when she learned of the King’s defeat and
death, she took to her bath and opened her veins with a dagger. You, Princess
Christine, are the last of the direct line, so if I wish to have a Harenburg
bride, there is but one choice. On the other hand, there is much to be said for
a union with the late Duke Robert’s daughter, is there not, Lady Emily? Your
estates… mine, if I espouse you… are twice the size of the Harenburgs’, and
more valuable by far. I could raise a far greater army with Fernhill gold at my
command than without. So, there is a much to recommend both of you. But which
will make a more suitable match when it comes to the bedroom? Which of you
lovely young ladies will be more solicitous of her King’s pleasure, hey?”
He stepped down from the throne, and stooped low over Emily, studying
her face from an inch away. She whimpered in fear. “What would you do, my fine
little Duchess, to avoid the scourge, the hot irons, the pincers, the rack, the
needles and all the rest?” His mailed hand clamped onto the collar of her dress
and he pulled down sharply, ripping the front of the garment away, leaving the
blonde girl clad only in a thin silk chemise embroidered with flowers. He
released the ruined dress and let it fall to the ground, then reached up to
untie the string that held the neck of the girl’s dainty undergarment closed. “Would
you crawl to my bed like a well-whipped bitch?”
Emily stared helplessly down at his hand. “Let us see what you conceal
under here, My Lady Emily,” the Count said, slipping the straps of the chemise
over her shoulders so that it slid down over her body, catching for a moment on
her nipples, then drifted to gather in a pile at the now-nude girl’s feet. She
made a broken sound deep in her throat, closed her eyes and turned her head to
the side. A blush began in her forehead, and spread to her cheeks neck and
breasts. Although it was May and the room was not particularly cold, she was shaking
so badly that she would have fallen had the two soldiers not held her erect.
Casimir’s eyes drank in her beauty. He had enjoyed not a few women in
his life, but he had never seen one more magnificent than the eighteen-year-old
Duchess of Fernhill. Her skin was flawless, a smooth expanse of alabaster
perfection. Her breasts were full, round, womanly, but surpassingly firm and
resilient. Her legs were long and shapely, well-muscled from riding, and
overlaid with just the right amount of soft flesh. Her mound was wonderfully
formed, with pink lips seeming to beckon from beneath a few golden hairs.
The Count took her chin in his steel-gloved hand and turned her head to
face him. “Look at me,” he commanded, and Emily opened her eyes. He shook off
the gauntlet from his free hand, and asked, “Would you bear the torture to
preserve your chastity? Would you endure the rack for hour upon hour before
besmirching your family’s honor? Would you die for your virtue, rather than
come willingly to the bed of your father’s killer?”
Emily stared back at him, unable to look away, unable to think in her
terror.
“Raise your chest and offer me your noble titties,” he commanded. “Show us
now the courage of a daughter of the famed House of Fernhill.”
Emily was in many ways a typical girl of the high nobility. She had led
a pampered, protected existence, and was accustomed to being treated with
attentiveness and respect by her many male admirers, and with instant
compliance by her servants. Her days were spent reading poetry, sewing, and
learning the arts of managing the kind of great household that she would
someday marry into or inherit. Other than horseback riding, she had not engaged
in rough sports or dangerous activities, or done anything that might be thought
of as unladylike since before her twelfth birthday. She had no real personal
experience with violence, and the sight of her father’s severed head together
with the Count’s bloodcurdling threats overwhelmed her. She felt as if her will
had left her body, as if she was being operated by some outside agency. Without
any conscious thought, she obediently forced her shoulder blades together and
arched her back, thrusting her breasts out toward Casmir’s waiting hand. She
shuddered but did not pull away when the Count’s hand cupped the creamy flesh
of her left breast and his callused palm scraped her dark pink nipple.