Энн Райс - Beauty's Punishment

“Looking for mysterious raiders,” she thought, but she didn’t say it. Now that she had her chance alone with Roger to ask about these things, she was too enthralled by the procession.

“You’re to go on down to the yard and rest on the grass,” said the Prince.

“Rest again?”

“The Captain won’t have you worked today. And tonight, he’s hiring you out to Nicolas, the Queen’s Chronicler.”

“Tristan’s Master!” Beauty whispered. “He’s asked for me?”

“Paid for you in good coin of the realm,” said Roger. He went on with his sweeping. “Go ahead down,” he said to her.

And her heart pounding, she watched the procession move slowly into the broad lane that led back to the other end of the village.

She couldn’t wait until dark.

The hours dragged as she was bathed, combed, and oiled roughly but as thoroughly as she had ever been at the castle. Of course she might not see Tristan tonight. But she was going to the place where Tristan lodged! She could not quiet herself.

Finally darkness descended on the village.

And Prince Richard, “the good little boy,” she thought, with a smile, was ordered to take her to Nicolas, the Chronicler.

The Inn was strangely empty, though all else in the deepening twilight seemed regular. Lights flickered in the pretty little windows along the narrow lanes; the spring air was fragrant and sweet. Prince Richard let her march fairly slowly, only now and then telling her to show a little more spirit, or they both would be whipped. He walked behind her with the strap, only occasionally licking her.

She could see wives and husbands at table through low windows, naked slaves rising from their knees in quick darting motions to set plates or pitchers before them. Slaves bound to the walls moaned and pumped vainly.

“But something is different,” she said as they came into a broader street, full of fine houses, almost every iron bracket with its manacled slave hanging beside the door, some tightly bound and gagged, others in quiet obedience.

“No soldiers,” Richard said under his breath. “And please be quiet. You’re not supposed to talk. We’ll both finish at the Punishment Shop.”

“But where are they?” Beauty asked.

“Do you want a licking?” he threatened. “They’re all out searching the coast and the forest for some imagined raiding party. I don’t know what it means, but don’t breathe a word. It’s a secret.”

But they had come to Nicolas’s door. Richard was leaving her. A maid greeted Beauty and ordered her down on her hands and knees. And in a frenzy of anticipation, Beauty was led right through a fine little house and down a narrow side corridor. A door was opened for her, and the maid bid her go in and closed the door behind her.

Beauty could scarcely believe her eyes when she looked up and saw Tristan before her. He reached out with both hands and lifted her to her feet. Beside him stood the tall figure of his Master, Nicolas, whom Beauty remembered well enough from the auction.

Her face was crimson when she looked at the man, because both she and Tristan were standing and embracing each other.

“Calm yourself, Princess,” he said in an almost caressing voice. “You may remain as long as you like with my slave, and in this room you are free to be with each other as you please. You will return to your regular servitude when you leave me.”

“O, my Lord,” Beauty whispered, and dropped to her knees to kiss his boots.

He allowed this courtesy, and then left them both. And Beauty rose and flew into Tristan’s arms, Tristan’s mouth opening to devour her kisses ravenously.

“Sweet little one, beautiful little one,” Tristan said, his lips feeding upon her throat and her face, his organ pushing against her naked belly.

His body seemed almost polished in the dim light of the candles, his golden hair lustrous. She looked up into those beautiful violet-blue eyes and rose on tiptoe to mount him as she had done in the slave cart.

She threw her arms around his neck and forced her dilated sex onto his cock, feeling him seal himself against her. Slowly, he sank back on the green satin coverlet of a little oak-paneled bed. And stretching out on the pillows, he threw back his head as she rode him.

His hands lifted her breasts, pinched her nipples, and held them throbbing as she bucked and reared on his sex, sliding up as high as she could without losing the shaft and plummeting down, her lips dipping to kiss him.

Tristan’s face went dark with his groans, and as she felt the cock erupt under her, she came, bucking still, until she was transfixed, her legs outstretched, shimmering with the last shocks of the pleasure.

They lay together arm in arm and slowly he wiped her hair back from her head, whispering, “My darling Beauty,” as he kissed her.

“Tristan, why is your Master letting us do this?” she asked. But she was in a sweet drowsy state and she did not really care. Candles burned on the little table beside the bed. She saw the light swell and obliterate the objects of the room except for the golden surface of a large mirror.

“He’s a man of mysteries and secrets and strange intensity,” Tristan said. “He will do exactly as he pleases. And it pleases him to let me see you, and it will please him tomorrow probably to have me whipped through the village. And very possibly he thinks that the one will enhance the torment of the other.”

The remembrance of Tristan, harnessed and horse-tailed, came back to Beauty unbidden. “I saw you,” she whispered flushing suddenly. “In the procession.”

“Did it seem so terrible?” he whispered comfortingly, kissing her. There was a faint blush on his cheeks that in a face so strong was irresistible.

She was amazed. “You didn’t find it terrible?” she asked.

A low laugh came from deep in his chest. She pulled the golden hair that curled up from around his cock to his belly.

“Yes, my darling,” he said, “it was deliciously terrible!”

She laughed as she looked into his eyes, and she kissed him again greedily. She snuggled down, kissing and biting at his nipples. “It tantalized me to see it,” she confessed, her voice throaty and not her own. “I only prayed you were somehow resigned . . .”

“I am more than resigned, my love,” he said, kissing the top of her head as he lay back under her affectionate bites. She mounted his left thigh and pressed her sex against it. He gasped as she bit at his nipple, pinching the other in time with her little bites. And then he tumbled her down on the sheets and opened her mouth again with his tongue.

“But tell me,” she insisted, stopping his kiss for a moment, his organ grazing her mound, pressing the tight curling hair against its grain gently. “You must,” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “How could you. . . ? The harnesses and the bit, and that horsetail. . . How have you come to this, this acceptance?” She didn’t need him to tell her he was resigned. She could see it and feel it, and she had seen it today in the procession. But she remembered him in the cart when they had come down from the castle, and she had felt the fear in him then that he was too proud to reveal freely.

“I’ve found my Master,” he said, “the one who brings me into harmony with all punishments,” Tristan said. “But if you must know,” he started kissing her again, his organ opening her nether lips and pushing at her clitoris. “It was, and will always be, utter mortification.”

Beauty lifted her hips to receive him. They were at once rocking in unison, Tristan gazing down at her, his arms like pillars supporting his powerful shoulders above her. She lifted her head to suck from his nipples, her hands pinching and parting his buttocks, feeling the hard delicious knots of the welts and measuring them and compressing them as she drew closer to the silky wrinkled lip of his anus. His motions grew swifter, rougher, more agitated as she delved. And suddenly reaching to the table beside her, she pulled one of the thick waxen candles from its silver holder, whipping out the flame and pressing the melted tip with her fingers. And then she plunged it into him, planting it firmly inside. His eyes squeezed shut. Her own sex became a taut sheath against his organ, her clitoris toughening, exploding. And cranking the waxen candle hard she cried out, feeling his hot fluids empty into her.