Punishing The Slave Girl Read online

  'A thousand men', Froome says. 'Two ships.'

  'It's no match', Kenrick says.

  'What about the barbarians?' Osborne says.

  'Fuck the barbarians', Henry shouts. If his goblet didn't have wine in it, he would have thrown it against the wall already.

  Osborne holds up his hands. 'Fuck the barbarians', he says in agreement.

  'Find him', The King says. 'Send a team, a whole fucking army if you have to. Find him and stop whatever it is he's thinking of doing.'

  'I'm not sure-', Kenrick begins.

  'Just fucking do it', Henry orders.

  Osborne rolls his eyes. I put my hand on my husband's arm to try and comfort him.

  'Fucking useless, the lot of you', he says, pulling it away. 'This should have been sorted five years ago at Guller's Landing.'

  'Yes your majesty', Froome agrees. Kenrick nods too. I see Osborne interlocking his fingers and looking down into the knots of wood on the table below him. Looking for answers in the same way I have from time to time. I want to tell him there aren't any there, but he already knows it.

  'Are we done here?' The King barks.

  There is a murmur of agreement. 'Good', he says. 'And don't fucking forget my hunt.'

  Chapter 2

  Sometimes I walk at night time. I leave Henry snoring in the chamber, and I take to the hallways and hidden rooms of my palace. I like the silence that night brings. I like the other things it sometimes brings too. The things I'm not meant to see.

  There are a hundred or so staff members here under orders from their king. Half of them I haven't properly been introduced to. I walk past their rooms, my hand stretched out to the wall, my ear to the door as I pass. I hear conversation, noises of sleep, grunts of sex more times than I can count. There is a world beyond these four walls, and a culture existing within it that I'm not even part of.

  I go to the gardens and sit for a while on the patio looking out towards the sea. I imagine a long boat coming ashore, tall men with thick blonde beards holding hammers into the sky, coming for me. Savages, barbarians, Vikings.

  The moon leaves triangles of carved light on the rippling surface. Tree tops sway in the ethereal mist above me. I hear a crow call. A distant wisp of shadowed sound, falling away into the calm of night. I see a shooting star light up the sky above me and I make a wish. I speak it into my hand, hold it close to my heart and then throw it towards the darkness in front of me, releasing it to the sea. When the wind picks up, I head back inside.

  I hear the noise echoing down the corridor long before I see who is making it. Warm and earthy, guttural, like a pair of caged animals, reunited after a long time apart. I'm on the way to the kitchens, not because I'm hungry, but because of the warmth I know I'll find from the open fire there, because of the memories it brings of my childhood. The kitchen isn't usually the place for a Queen, which is why it's somewhere I go to often. I know I'll never be found.

  I creep, partly not to disturb them, partly so I'm not heard coming. At the very edge of the doorway, I peer in and see them. She is bent over the preparation table, arms flat, face down. He is behind her, red faced, his hands gripping her hips tightly, working himself quickly, thrusting hard. There is something deeply private about what is happening, something deeply animalistic too. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't take my eyes away. These are the secrets of the night that I always hope to find. These are the moments that make my life measurable.

  I adjust my position slightly so I can see him entering her. It involves crossing the open doorway, like a shadow passing. I do so on the very tips of my toes, my night dress gathered together in my hands. If they notice me, they don't break rhythm.

  She has the folds of her skirt rucked up across her back, which she has arched like a cat. Her right leg is bent at the knee, lifted slightly so, like a dancer, she takes what little weight she has on the ball of her foot. Her head is turned to the side too, rested on the back of her outstretched hand, her eyes closed, as though swimming through a dream. Her panties have been lowered and left to cling to the skin below her knee, resting there like forgotten laundry.

  The tips of his fingers turn white where they grip tightly onto her skin. He moves his other hand over her back, caressing her with loving strokes, before he moves it up to her hair. Wrapping her curls around his wrist, he gathers her up in his hand and tugs gently. She moans, her mouth opening slightly as he pulls.

  On the rare occasions my husband wants to have sex with me, he insists I go on top. While I rock myself back and forth on his semi thick cock, hoping that this time he'll last long enough for me to orgasm, he pretends to look interested, reaching from time to time for my breasts to convince me he is.

  From here I can see his thick cock parting her pussy lips and driving inside her. I have never seen sex from this angle before. I've seen my husband enter me, and I've seen him enter several of the other women that come to his chamber when he thinks I'm not around to find out about it, but I've never seen it like this. It's turning me on. I want to touch myself, but know I can't risk it. If anyone caught me here, with my fingers in places they shouldn't be, the King would be the first to issue my punishment.

  It's not just what I can see either. It's the noises they are both making. At once loving, and purely animalistic. The wet sucking sound of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, the slapping sound of his balls smacking against her pussy lips on each thrust, the deep guttural gasps he makes, as the pleasure binds its way inside him, and the high pitched trills that end her short breaths, speak of nothing but stolen passion, of deep love and need and rough, primeval union.

  I want to be fucked like this. I want to be bent over the kitchen work surface and fucked hard by a big, strong man. I want to have my hips held like that, my ass cheeks slapped, my ass-hole toyed with. Licked, stimulated, penetrated.

  They are rising together, his pace increasing. This is a stolen midnight fuck by two people who aren't allowed this pleasure. I'm stealing it too, piggybacking on their prurient show. Tingles break out across my skin. I notice I'm up on tip toes too, mirroring her stance, clung tightly to the door frame, wrapped around it only so much that I can see, hidden still in shadow, close as I can allow myself to be. I lick my lips when I see her lick hers. I reach up for my tits when I see her reach down for hers. I want to be her, spread out, forced like that, taken hard. I can feel my pussy crave it. I can feel the ache deep inside me, the throbbing need to be fulfilled.

  'Oh fuck', she says, her breath peaking. 'Oh fuck, that's it, harder. Fuck me harder.'

  He grits his teeth, raising sinewy muscles from his neck. His biceps bulge as he grabs her tighter. She rockets against the hardened surface, his thighs crashing into hers. At full stretch, she holds on.

  I can't help myself. Before I realise it, I'm pressed up against the door frame, gyrating into the knotted wood. I lift one leg and let my fingers search for the calls my body refuses to stop making. I feel fire sweep out across my skin, spasms dart up my spine. With deft movements, I lift my nightdress.

  'I'm going to make you come', he says.

  My panties are soaking wet. I slip my fingers inside them, desperate to pleasure myself. Unable to hold myself back. As I slide a V around my swollen clitoris, glancing my trembling nub momentarily, I can't help but moan with pleasure, my knees almost buckling beneath me. I am closer than I thought. Somehow the errant sound gets lost on the way through the kitchen, and I continue to remain hidden from them. I press myself into the shadows just in case, while I push my fingers further underneath me, towards my hole.

  'Fuck, oh fuck. Fuck I'm going to come. Just like that, don't stop.'

  I am so wet, when I work my two middle fingers up into my hole, they slide inside me effortlessly. I let my thumb settle on my clitoris as I work them back and forth, the sensation already enough to push me over.

  She is almost screaming, loud enough for him to put his hand over her mouth to make her quiet. Any noise I make in the midst of this will
pale in comparison. I'm squatted down low now, my legs apart, my fingers inside me and one hand gripped onto the door frame, ready to push me immediately out of sight if necessary. I'm working my clitoris with the flat edge of my thumb and I'm ready to let myself go as soon as I want to. I can't keep my eyes of him, pounding away at her like a piece of meat. I'm transfixed by the shape of his body, the muscles in his arms, the tightness of his buttocks, the thickness of his cock.

  'Fuck, that's it, ah, yes, I'm coming.'

  I watch her balancing leg drop, bucking at the knee. I see the muscles of her pussy contract on his cock, and her ass-hole open and close like a budding and receding flower. As her orgasm tears through her, I watch her back arch up like a cat, and her right arm spasm out to her side. Her screams muffled by his huge hand, he continues his rapid ascent, holding her up now so he can finish the job.

  'I told you I'd make you come', he says, teeth gritted, eyes wide. Determined.

  I circle my clitoris slowly, right on the edge, unable to take my eyes off him. My heart is beating wildly, my arms thick with goosebumps. I know what's coming. I can barely breath for excitement. I can feel it thick within me, pounding hard, waiting to get out. It's like a wild animal that needs to be released. Pushing myself on, careful to time it right, knowing I only have a certain amount of time before it rushing over me, but knowing he has too, I watch.

  'Fuck', he says.

  I groan hard, fall forward slightly. It's upon me. Fuck it's strong.

  He twists his neck, flattens his palm out across her back and pushes her down into the wood.

  It rips through me in waves. Pulses, that explode out across my skin, suck me away into the nothingness, cover me in shooting stars that fall about me like fairy dust, and leave me naked and bare, exposed without shelter. Just before I turn, collapsing against the wall, momentarily hunched over before I lie flat, my palm outstretched to catch my cheek, the fingers of my other hand cupped protectively around my still throbbing sex, I see him pull his mighty cock out of her hole, and explode himself across her quivering anus. Lying there, I come again, shivering with pleasure as it rides itself around my body, refusing to leave.

  Chapter 3

  Henry is away on business. We both know what that means. Whoring and hunting his way across the countryside south of the Kingdom, while he pretends to visit prospective allies, wealthy family members and strategic points of defence.

  More boats have been spotted docking to the north of the country, along the windswept, barren coastline to the east. According to Froome, they have taken and subsequently destroyed Minster, Uggerbridge and Cason. They are moving south. They are getting closer.

  I catch him crossing the courtyard one morning, in the kind of mild panic he wears like a glove. I want to get the truth out of him about what kind of enemy we are facing, but he is less than forthcoming.

  'Don't worry, my Queen', he says. 'It is all under control.'

  Froome knows more than he is letting on, but I don't press it. I have other ways of finding out the truth, and it's better that Froome knows less about my interest.

  The King has decided to make himself absent at a time where his Kingdom is threatened not only by outside forces, but powers from within these four walls as well. Froome believes Milner is receiving tactical information from a palace contact, and has dedicated much of the last few months on a campaign to root them out. It wouldn't surprise me. Henry has a habit of destroying well built friendships and making long lasting enemies. There are many men who would like to see him dead, and twice as many still who'd do it themselves and then step on his bones to get to the throne. Henry knows this, but he doesn't care. He has a disproportionate sense of his own importance, which runs in parallel with the size of his waist. He thinks he's immortal, undefeatable. He thinks he'll sit on the throne forever, his doting, ambitionless wife by his side.

  I go with Garrett, Edgar and Blake. They could get their heads cut off for taking me, but they'll be paid well so the risk is worth it. Blake is only seventeen. He's a smart kid with a clean jaw and tight, thin lips, that disappear almost completely in the cold. There is a fourth man with us who Garrett introduces as Leighton Cole, a new addition to the King's army. He was born a peasant to a butcher's son, and lifted from anonymity by Kenrick after winning one of the King's long-blade tournaments. I smile sweetly at him and he bows gracefully in front of me. He looks different with his clothes on, but I refrain from telling him so.

  If my husband were here, he wouldn't allow this. Froome knows, of course, but I pay him to keep quiet. He's not loyal to anything but money, so as long as I don't endanger his life, he's happy to go along with whatever I have planned.

  A Queen should be allowed to see her subjects. It's all very well being in a position of rule, but if you separate yourself from the country in which you live and reign, what is the point? I am tired of being locked up in a palace that might as well be a prison with a sea view. Besides which, I want to know what's coming for me.

  We dress as would be expected of a commoner in this land. I can't merge in if I don't play the part. My men carry weapons, but they keep them concealed. We go on horseback, not chariot. When we leave the palace, we leave it behind completely.

  'They're talking about revolt', Garrett says, guiding our horse through the fortress wall. 'Getting rid of the King.'

  I pull my collar up against the cold. They are always talking about revolt. I've been making these trips for almost two years now, every time my husband goes away.

  'What do they say about the barbarians?' I ask.

  Garrett turns towards me slightly, so his voice doesn't get lost in the wind. 'They're scared, Ma'am', he says. 'I think we all should be.'

  We ride through the city. It's more dangerous, but I insist on it. I want to see the clotted mud gathered up against the broken stone walls, the children chasing each other around in tattered clothes, the women stood in doorways offering sex as a service. It's messy here, dirty. It's real. We are stared at and stopped on occasion. Some people want money, others want to pat the horses, spit at the ground and talk. I muddy my accent, make a story, tell them we're farmers from the north, looking for food and shelter, work if there is any. Vacant eyes lift towards me, warily.

  'You'll find nothing of use here in the Kingdom, aint nothing but a rat run of piss and ill will.'

  'Ruined it all', says another. He spits on the ground through a tangle of dirty teeth, one arm outstretched to balance himself against the wall. From inside the hut comes a series of coughing. He looks back into the darkness, but doesn't say anything. 'You'll find taverns open, yonder', he says. 'You'll get a meal there, some ale. Be careful mind, this isn't the countryside no more. Especially with the girl.'

  We edge around the outskirts, a star filled sky above us, trotting slowly, meaningfully. The men talk as though their Queen isn't with them. They have confidence in my presence, or have forgotten momentarily that I'm here. I don't remind them. It's these conversations that remind me of what I miss. Nothing about what they are saying is offensive, or against myself or Henry, instead they talk about women, about the city falling apart, about money, food and the lives they wish they were leading. They swear frequently, and it is the lilt of those particular, foreign sounding words that I devour like sugardrops.

  We leave the horses stabled outside, Garrett and Leighton with them, while Edgar and Blake take me inside. We are stared at suspiciously when we enter, enough to make me consider retreating and finding somewhere else. I have been here before in disguise, with Garrett and another man, but it's clear that I'm not recognised.

  'We are looking for food and warmth', Blake says, his hand held up in a passive gesture. 'We've ridden a long way.'

  The men at the bar look at each other. The wenches look at me.

  'We're all welcome in here', the bar maid says. 'Just shut the bloody door will you, you're letting that devil cold in.'

  'Thank you', I say.

  'Aye', the bar maid says, and nod
s, her eyes never once lifting from me.

  We ease our way into one of the tables, while the barmaid brings us each a thick pour of cloudy brown liquid.

  'You'll want supper, I take it?' she says.

  'Please', Edgar says. He's a heavy set man with a nose that's been broken so many times it lies pressed almost flat against his upper lip, a scar across his cheek he sustained as a baby, and a light, heavenly voice that sounds like it should belong to someone else entirely. I like him enormously, everyone does. 'And bread if you have it', he continues.

  It isn't long before someone comes over to us.

  'Where have you ridden from?' he asks, leaning across the table and rubbing his head from time to time.

  'North', Blake says. I can tell he's tense so I put a hand on his sword arm, hidden by the thickness of the table.

  'North, where?' The man asks. 'North's a big country.'

  'North isn't a country you fucking eejit', someone from the bar calls to him.

  'A small holding on the edge of the Rakatan forest, Past Glybell. The nearest town is Acreville', I say. 'We had a bad harvest and then lost the animals. Our father died. Got the sickness.'

  The man rubs his head again. A back and forward motion that seems to indicate something is irritating him. When he finally takes his hand away I see welts of marked skin, patches where the end of an infection is still clinging to him. 'I know Acreville', he says. 'That's two days ride.'

  'Leave them alone, Grenn', the man from the bar calls. 'Let them drink their ale.'

  'You see any of them?' Grenn asks, eyes flashing. 'You must have been close. I heard they've got to Caldwell.'

  'Any of whom?' Edgar asks him, his soft voice immediately calming.

  Grenn's eyes flick to him. 'Those savages', he says, nodding energetically and rubbing his head. His eyes flick back to me. 'They'd like you, pretty you are.'

  'What do you know about them?' I ask.

  Grenn smiles. His tongue darts out to moisten the edges of his mouth. He leans back in his chair. 'Nothing', he says. 'thought you might be able to tell us.'