Justine Elyot - Game

‘Forgive me, Princess,’ he says gruffly, and then he unlaces my bodice so that the sponge can glide underneath the material, wetting my breasts, circling my nipples until they are hard, soaked little bullets dimpling the damp cloth.

‘Surely I’m not dirty there,’ I protest, but it’s a gasp, almost a yelp, and I can see my chest rise and fall in front of me, faster and faster with each breath.

His voice is almost a whisper. ‘Oh yes you are.’ He sucks air through gritted teeth. A steam cloud of lust takes its form in the space between us.

He removes the sponge from my bodice and runs a palm over the peaked mounds, his face down low, his breath warming the goose-pimpled flesh.

‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Now spread your legs for me, Princess. I’m going to lift your skirts.’

‘Oh,’ I whimper, the resistance draining fast. ‘Why? Why must you …?’ But I spread them and raise my knees as well.

‘Because the Dark Prince wants you clean there, runaway Princess. Among other things.’

He pushes up the layers of skirts until they lie heavy on my stomach. Underneath, no knickers. Apparently they were a Victorian innovation. I’m not sure what time period we’re in, but it’s a draughty one.

I watch with thrilled dread as my captor loads his sponge with soapy water once more then carries it, dripping on to my breasts and stomach, down to my split thighs, drenching them so that rivers of liquid run down to my open sex.

Not that it needs to be any wetter.

‘Oh fuck,’ I say, having lost control of my voluntary reactions at the first brush of sponge on clit.

‘Nice and clean,’ he croons, sweeping it between my pussy lips and over my pulsing vagina, letting soapy suds impart their mild sting to the crack of my arse. He increases the pressure when the sponge returns to my clitoris, pushing it against the swollen bead, rotating it very slowly until I arch my back and voice an inarticulate plea.

Before I can come, he removes it. I feel its loss, my entire lower body seeming to collapse in on itself in an effort to suck it back.

The tips of his fingers flutter and waft around my cunt.

Use them.

‘The King suspects,’ he whispers, never quite letting them close enough to touch while I moan and strain towards them, ‘you may have conspired with a lover. He has asked me to gain proof of your virginity.’

‘Oh God.’ My hips tremble.

‘Lie very still, Princess. Don’t move a muscle.’

One finger sheaths itself and my cunt seems to sigh with relief.

‘Mmm,’ he says, adding another, then another, until I am stretched and feeling the invasion. His thumb lands on my clit, lightly, tenderly, but enough to bring every nerve ending to rapt attention.

‘Hmm, still intact,’ he lies. ‘I’ve done the King’s bidding. Shall we prepare for the journey back to the palace?’

‘Oh.’ I want to cry with the pitch of my need. He is holding me on that edge, skimming it so expertly, keeping me in piteous thrall. ‘No. Please.’

‘No? Wilful spoilt princess is lying on her back with her legs spread and a peasant’s fingers up inside her and she doesn’t want him to stop? Is that right?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘She wants him to make her come?’

‘God, yes.’

‘Then she’d better tell him so, because humble serfs need royal permission to finger the royal cunt, don’t they? Not to mention fiddling with the royal clit.’

‘Jesus, Lloyd …’

‘Nuh uh.’ His fingers slide halfway out and I clamp my thighs, trying to catch them. He smacks the accessible part of my bum and tuts at me. ‘None of that, missy. We’re finishing this in character. Come on. Do as you’re told.’

‘Please, peasant, make me come. Please, please, now, please.’

He presses down; the fingers reinsert themselves.

I come, thrashing and snarling, twisting into his hand.

‘How about that?’ He sounds so smug I’d slap him if I weren’t both bound and sapped by the force of my orgasm. ‘Princesses come just the same as wenches. You’re just a wench underneath it all, aren’t you?’

‘Insolent,’ I pant, but I can’t finish the thought. I don’t have it in me.

‘That’s me.’ He stretches himself out at my side, watching me so hard that I have to turn my face away. ‘Oh, are you shy now? Now you’ve begged me to finger you. Bit late for that.’ He chuckles. ‘What a pisser about the Dark Prince and his insistence on you being virgo intacta. I’d love to show you how a man can make you feel.’ His fingers are gentle on my waist, running up and down its slopes until I can’t turn my back on him any more.

My eyes meet his.

‘What would the Dark Prince do if I were no longer a virgin?’

My captor doesn’t understand me at first, frowning in vague bemusement.

‘I mean,’ I expand, ‘would he still want me for his bride?’

‘He would shame you before the populace and send you home.’

‘Send me home. And the marriage would be dissolved?’

‘Most certainly it would. And your father would vow to kill the man who had touched you first. So if you’re thinking …’

‘I would lie. Tell some story of a band of brigands in the forest.’

‘Who would be sought. Then some innocent man would be arrested and killed. Your father wouldn’t rest until he had somebody to hold accountable.’

‘You’re right.’ I sigh, bite my lip. ‘I shall say I forced the man to do it.’

He laughs. ‘Who would believe that?’

‘My father knows me. He knows I’ll do anything to avoid this match. He would believe it. I would simply refuse to name my deflowerer.’

He strokes my forehead with a thumb. ‘You put yourself in terrible danger, Princess, if you do this. The Dark Prince isn’t a man many would cross.’

‘I’d rather risk it than face the certainty of having to spend the rest of my life with that brute.’ I drop my voice to a whisper. ‘Do it for me. Take my maidenhead for me.’

‘Gods, Princess, I … it’s not …’ He struggles.

I watch the weighing-up process through his shrewd blue eyes. I see it all – doubts, temptations, fears, rationalisations, temptations again, settling finally into outright lust.

I seize my moment. ‘Take me.’ I let my spine arch and my leg rub against his. ‘Let my first time be with a man who knows how to pleasure.’

‘Princess …’

‘Let your cock sink into my tight sweet embrace and …’ The florid language isn’t coming so easily now. I want him too much. My imagination is failing, hamstrung by my need to be shagged, good and proper, with my wrists tied and my pretend hymen breached. ‘Look, just fuck me, all right? Just give me what I need.’

With a growl, he almost tears off his shirt then rolls himself over me, palms flat by my ears, his milky freckled chest hovering over my straining breasts. He dips his head and takes the bodice between his teeth, wrenching it down over the small portion of my chest that remains concealed. He buries his face between my breasts, consuming and devouring, suckling the nipples and biting the soft flesh.

‘I’ll give you what you need all right. Get ready.’

He rears up on his knees, yanking his belt through its loops, snarling down at me. My body sings with triumph at the light in his eyes, the hard gleam that shows he has gone past the point of caring about anything but sex. I have him.

He frees his cock then takes my buttocks in his hands and yanks my thighs wide, lifting me towards him.

My tethered hands want to grab the back of his head and pull him down on top of me, but they can’t. I know what’s coming, but I want to have it quicker, harder, more urgently than is even possible. I manage to hook my knees around his hips, drawing the tip of that fat feast of a cock into me.